who are more scholarly."

"I mistrust me of that great seal; it bodes us no good, Chris," she
replied doubtfully, and paling a little.

"The message within is no medlar to soften by keeping," said Emlyn.
"Give it me. I was schooled in a nunnery, and can read their scrawls."

So, nothing loth, Cicely handed her the paper, which she took in her
strong fingers, broke the seal, snapped the silk, unfolded, and read. It
ran thus--


"To Sir Christopher Harflete, to Mistress Cicely Foterell, to Emlyn
Stower, the waiting-woman, and to all others whom it may concern.

"I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, having heard of the death of
Sir John Foterell, Knt., at the cruel hands of the forest thieves
and outlaws, sent last night to serve the declaration of my wardship,
according to my prerogative established by law and custom, over the
person and property of you, Cicely, his only child surviving. My
messengers returned saying that you had fled from your home of Shefton
Hall. They said further that it was rumoured that you had ridden with
your foster-mother, Emlyn Stower, to Cranwell Towers, the house of Sir
Christopher Harflete. If this be so, for the sake of your good name it
is needful that you should remove from such company at once, as there
is talk about you and the said Sir Christopher Harflete. I purpose,
therefore, God permitting me, to ride this day to Cranwell Towers, and
if you be there, as your lawful guardian and ghostly father, to command
you, being an infant under age, to accompany me thence to the Nunnery