“So you are a man after all,” she said, laughing aloud. “Now, man—my man—who, if we live through this, shall be my husband if you will—yes, my husband, for I’ll pay, and be proud of it—listen to my commands. See you, I am Moses, and yonder in the Abbey sits Pharaoh with a hardened heart, and you are the angel—the destroying angel with the sword of the plagues of Egypt. To-night there will be fire in the Abbey—such fire as fell on Cranwell Towers. Nay, nay, I know; the church will not burn, nor all the great stone halls. But the dormitories, and the storehouses, and the hayricks, and the cattle-byres, they’ll flame bravely after this time of drought, and if the wains are ashes, how will they draw in their harvest? Will you do it, my man?”
“Surely. Have I not sworn?”
“Then away to the work, and afterwards—to-morrow or next day—come back and make report. Just now I am much moved to solitary prayer, so wait till you see me here alone upon my knees. Stay! Wrap yourself in grave-clothes, for then if you are seen they will think you are a ghost, such as they say haunt this place. Fear not, by then I will have more work for you. Have you mastered it?”
He nodded his head. “All. All, especially your promise. Oh! I’ll not die now; I’ll live to claim it.”
“Good. There’s on account,” and again she kissed him. “Go.”
He reeled in the intoxication of his joy; then said—
“One word; my head swims; I forgot. Sir Christopher is not dead, or wasn’t——”
“What do you mean?” she almost hissed at him. “In Christ’s name be quick; I hear voices without.”
“They buried another man for Christopher. I scraped him up and saw. Christopher was sent foreign, sore wounded, on the ship—pest! I have forgotten its name—the same ship that took Jeffrey Stokes.”
“Blessings on your head for that tidings,” exclaimed Emlyn, in a strange, low voice. “Away; they are coming to the door!”