Montjoy rode through a dewy June morning. He crossed the bridge, his horse’s hoofs sounding deeply, an air from the sea filling nostrils, the light striking sails of fishing boats gliding away below the arches where all widened. Montjoy was bound for Damson Wood.

Montjoy rode homeward in the evening, after a day in the deep wood, after a visit to Damson Hill graveyard. His two stout serving men, riding the brown and the roan behind him, thought it a strange visit.

Nearing the bridge Montjoy checked the black horse and turning slightly, looked back at Saint Leofric’s mound. There was now full, level flow of reddened light, and the mound was bathed in it. The church stood up in that light, the cloister walls were made faery.

“Oh, Hugh and Hugh! I walk in your heart and I see the dark engines, and I walk in your mind and it is a hold for sorceries!”

He put his horse into motion. “Such a plan and such a course could never have come to Mark! Though it might have come to Prior Matthew.”

He was upon the bridge. Others were crossing. Sir Robert Somerville he caught up with. “Well met, Somerville!”

“My lord Montjoy—” Somerville presented his kinsman riding beside him. The sunset reddened and reddened. The waters glowed below the arches, the boats moved, a barge slipped underneath, emerged and went up stream, its rowers singing. The dark houses rose from the river bank. One that was narrow and latticed, close to the old wall, drew their eyes. The sunset made its windows to blaze. Somerville and Montjoy both saw, without the physical eye, the courtesan, Morgen Fay.

Somerville began to talk of where he had been. He had been to show his kinsman Saint Leofric’s and a miracle.

Said Sir Humphrey, “I have always desired to see a miracle.”

“Saw you one?”

“You gibe!” said Somerville. “But we did see one. It would not be wise, even for Montjoy, to doubt to the throng that we saw one!”

“What happened?”

“A woman received her sight.”

They left the bridge. The dying rose of the sun touched Middle Forest’s High Street. Folk were yet abroad, going this way and going that; most or all going home. Droning sound was in the air; then Saint Ethelred’s bell began to ring.

Somerville talked on. He lived so, with vivacity, like a quick sword playing with joy in its own point and edge, like wine liking its own sparkle from beaker to cup. To a certain depth he could read Montjoy. Old rivalries, jealousies conflicts existed between Somerville and Montjoy. Now all the sea above was calm, but those ancient tendencies stayed like reefs below. Light-drawing boats could pass above them, but greater craft might be in danger.

Somerville’s quick and agreeable voice jetted on. His eye, quick as a hawk’s, marked the small erect man riding the black horse. If Montjoy in his nature had sensitive tracts, far be it from Somerville not to touch these! Do it always, though with swordly skill, keeping one’s self invisible, invulnerable!

Montjoy, it was evident, did not like Saint Leofric’s miracles. Why? Somerville, using wit, found part of it. All affairs were seesaw! You go up; I go down. Up Saint Leofric; down Saint Willebrod. Up Dominican; down Cistercian. Up Prior Hugh; down Abbot Mark, Montjoy’s kinsman. Up Friary; down Silver Cross, enriched by, linked to, the castle on the hill. Up neighbour’s glory; down my glory! If Montjoy, as apparently was the case, identified his glory with that of Silver Cross—Why, or to what extent, who cared? He did it, that was evident! His doing it answered for Somerville’s cue.

Somerville with malice dilated upon the throng at Saint Leofric’s and the mounting excitement. He had a vigour and colour of speech that lifted the scene bodily across the river and set it in the High Street. He appealed for corroboration to his cousin. The latter, though he could not guess all, guessed some motive and fell easily in with his kinsman and host. Not only the great play over there, the singing and weeping, the light in the church and the shout of joy—but he could report the stir that was spreading through England. Indeed, it was said that the Princess of Spain was coming—

Montjoy thought, “That Princess should give her presence to Silver Cross. She should smooth Isabel’s tomb with her hand. Life should come from her eyes to the picture.”

Somerville was drawing comparisons, and yet he lived this side the river, up the Wander indeed, where from any hilltop he might see Silver Cross!

“It’s an ill bird that fouls its own nest!” said Montjoy, harshly.

Somerville laughed and shot across a hawk glance. “But if it is true? Look at Abbot Mark and then at Prior Hugh! The last ascetic, fired, ever praying; the first—But he is your kinsman, Montjoy, and I touch him not—”

“I want truth,” said Montjoy, and his voice had an angry croak.

“Then in truth is he one whose abbey would show miracles? Who says great sanctity shows anywhere at Silver Cross? Is it carping to cry out against sloth and indulgence? If they are near home, I believe in confessing they are near home! Has Silver Cross one monk who may stand with the Friar to whom hand and arm appeared?”

“I could tell you—,” burst forth Montjoy, then checked himself. “I know not of the monks,” he said, “though there be two or three—I know not in these days of any place more or less slothful than another. We are all drunken and dazed, we have sinned so long! But of old Silver Cross was a saintly place!”

“Oh, I’ll give you ‘of old’! Well, Saint Leofric may redeem the time! And surely for that we must rejoice!”

“If it be redeemer and not Iscariot—yes! But Saint Leofric’s miracles are false miracles!”

He spoke with an energy of passion, forgetting caution. He spoke louder than his wont. They were passing through the market square and folk in numbers were about. Montjoy’s voice reached the nearer circle of these. There fell upon the centre of Middle Forest a pause, a hush. It was as though the world had come to an end! Then like a bolt from the tawny sky laced with blue and rose, fell a great voice, “You lie, lord of Montjoy!”

It was so thick, loud and startling that Montjoy himself, thrilling, dragged his horse back upon haunches. Somerville, too, started. It took a moment to see that the voice proceeded from a Black Friar, a man with the frame of a giant, who had been climbing the stone stair to the upper street. They were passing the stair foot; he heard and turned. Now he was set as in a pulpit above them. His great bell voice reached half the dwindled market. The folk were already looking Montjoy and Somerville way. Those hearing Montjoy needed no explanation, but explained to their fellows. Montjoy’s words ran around the market place. With agitation a wave of folk lifted itself and began to flow toward steps and toward checked horses. The Black Friar’s voice took thunder tone. “Who discredits Saint Leofric discredits God and Our Lady and Her Son!”

A woman shrilled from a booth of earthenware and hats of plaited straw. “Don’t ye anger the Saint and dry up his miracles, Montjoy! Don’t ye! My dumb daughter is coming from up the Wander. Don’t ye!”

“Don’t ye!”

“My palsied brother is going!”

“The morn I take my child—”

“Don’t ye!”

A mob was gathering. Above their heads the Dominican, great figure in great pulpit, with point and energy recited as it were a rosary of Saint Leofric’s deeds, and between them scarified doubt. Said Somerville with an excited laugh, “Wasp’s nest was not empty, Montjoy!”

Montjoy had power, Montjoy had his own kind of popularity. He was thought a lord of his word and of generous notions, rather a godly lord. He had the gift of shy and subtle loving, and so he loved Middle Forest and it hurt him always when they differed.—Now what? He saw in a grim flash of cold, uncaring light, that his world was not going to have Saint Leofric’s miracles false.

No use saying anything—

He must even recover if he could its liking, must render harmless to himself Black Friar’s lightning.

What to say? How positively to lie? Excuse stuck in his throat. At last he managed to shout forth. “You know me, good folk. If I doubt, it is not Saint Leofric that I doubt!”

“Whom dost thou doubt? Prior Hugh, whose austerities, whose prayers and fastings brought the blessing? What dost thou doubt? That the woman who this morn was blind now sees?”

“That you cannot doubt, Lord of Montjoy!” said Somerville in a loud voice. “Sir Humphrey Somerville and I saw that wonder! The woman sees—praise Our Lady and Saint Leofric!”

Having cleared himself he found himself willing to aid in extricating Montjoy. Give him the prick of being aided! “The sun is strong to-day, and my lord Montjoy hath been long in saddle and is weary and half-sick! So for one instant, good friends, the devil had his ear! It is naught—he will shake the fiend off. Hurt him not by mistrusting him! Presently will you see him on pilgrimage himself to Saint Leofric’s!”

Montjoy, dry-voiced, tried to speak. He was dark red, his voice broke in his throat. Suddenly, sharply turning Black King, he touched him with his heel and rode from the market place. “See you, he is really a sick man!” cried Somerville and pushed his bay after him. Sir Humphrey followed, and Montjoy’s two serving men.

Middle Forest knew the lord of the castle for an encreasingly devout man. It could not even now see him as scoffer. Sir Robert Somerville, now, was much more like a scoffer than was Montjoy! For a moment folk hung in the wind, then the larger number agreed to give Montjoy the benefit of the doubt. Probably to-morrow he would come praising Saint Leofric! Envious Satan did attack each one in turn! The buzz and hum continued, but it left the key of anger. The Black Friar, having vindicated the right, climbed triumphantly the stair to the upper street.

On castle road where the Wander road diverged Montjoy abruptly said good night. His voice was moved, sonorous, thrilling with hurt pride. He seemed eager to leave them, to mount to his old castle that was not so large, not so threatening, after all!

When he was gone Somerville laughed, and Sir Humphrey complaisantly with him. They trotted on upon the Wander road, a great manor house and supper before them, three miles up the vale. “When all’s spoken,” said Somerville, “I have a back-handed liking for that lord that’s just left us! I like him enough inwardly to quarrel with him, and frustrate him, and make sure that he thinks not too well of himself! I preoccupy myself with him. The day is stale when I run not somehow against him! What miracle he decrys, will I cry up; or what he cries up, will I decry!”

He began to whistle, sweet and clear as a blackbird.