But there was little sleep for Cecily. When all was quiet she stole down to the larder, and made up a packet of food, and with this, and a roll of twine in her hand, she quietly made her way on to the leads. "Father Anthony must be starving," she said to herself, as she fastened her parcel on to the string, and then cautiously looked out over the parapet. The whole world seemed asleep in the waning moonlight. There was not a sound to be heard; the lights in the village below were all extinguished; it was as though she stood on some eminence, gazing over an uninhabited land. Yet even thus the girl felt there was need of care, and it was scarcely above a whisper that she breathed the words, "Father Anthony!" as she leant forward, and looked into the dark shadow below.
"A blessing rest on your head whoever you may be!" were the words that came upwards in reply, almost like an echo.
"It is I—Cecily. And I have somewhat for your sustenance, father, since vigils such as yours cannot be maintained without support."
"And 'twill be right welcome, for I am famished and cold and cramped to boot."
The parcel was lowered, and again for a time there was silence, until at length came the direction—
"Draw up the cord, Cecily; I have finished, and now must away. The place is clear of the bloodhounds?"
"Yes. They are all gone onward; Roger watched them half-way to Meerdale."
"Then I will double back on their tracks, and may yet get off with a whole skin. Think you Roger could bring a suit of peasant's clothes to the hut in Varr Wood to-morrow evening?"
"Of a surety, yes."
"Then bid him place it in the rafters above the door and return at once. He will not see me."