But Friar Martin said, “Did ever you wander by a stream called Wander? Do you know a town named Middle Forest, and the Abbey of Silver Cross?”
Diccon Dawn shook his head. “I stick to my work, Brother. It’s night and snowing fast!”
Light—light! It seemed to blaze around. “Didst never make silver dishes for abbots?”
“No. I have a humbler trade. It nears curfew, Brother!”
“I met a woman upon your doorstep. Your wife or perhaps your sister?”
“My sister,—Curfew, Brother!”
The other was thinking, “I do not yet know wholly, but I guess, I guess!” He said aloud, “Do smiths have visions? Doth heaven ever open in this street?”
“All streets are ways to that. Curfew, Brother!”
It was dusk save for the one taper and the fire eye in the back of the room. The friar was almost a giant, but the smith, too, was a strong man, and somewhere in the house dwelled a witch! He had matter enough to turn and twist this way and that, during the night, preparing the vial of wrath. “Aye, it is late! I will go, having seen your silver work!”
He went. The street was snowy. His great sandalled foot made no sound. Going, a little chime rang in his brain. “I see the gain of Saint Leofric! I see the gain of Saint Leofric!”