you?"

"Not altogether, Christopher. I came because I am distraught, and you
are a better friend than none at all, and--where else should I go? Also
my poor father with his last words to me, although he was so angry with
you, bade me seek your help if there were need--and--oh! Christopher, I
came because you swore you loved me, and, therefore, it seemed right.
If I had gone to the Nunnery, although the Prioress, Mother Matilda, is
good, and my friend, who knows, she might not have let me out again, for
the Abbot is her master, and _not_ my friend. It is our lands he loves,
and the famous jewels--Emlyn has them with her."

By now they were across the moat and at the steps of the house, so,
without answering, Christopher lifted her tenderly from the saddle,
pressing her to his breast as he did so, for that seemed his best
answer. A groom came to lead away the horses, touching his bonnet, and
staring at them curiously; and, leaning on her lover's shoulder, Cicely
passed through the arched doorway of Cranwell Towers into the hall,
where a great fire burned. Before this fire, warming his thin hands,
stood Father Necton, engaged in eager conversation with Emlyn Stower. As
the pair advanced this talk ceased, evidently because it was of them.

"Mistress Cicely," said the kindly-faced old man, speaking in a nervous
fashion, "I fear that you visit us in sad case," and he paused, not
knowing what to add.

"Yes, indeed," she answered, "if all I hear is true. They say that
my father is killed by cruel men--I know not for certain why or by
whom--and that the Abbot of Blossholme comes to claim me as his ward and
immure me in Blossholme Priory, whither I would not go. I have fled here