When upon his knees he had come most close to her, when she felt his hands, his brow, his breathing against her sandalled feet, she had given back in a kind of terror. Then, all unluckiness!

Flying, she had dropped her mantle. Brother Norbert, Brother Anselm and their terrified white faces! Brother Anselm coming after her, out of the cell, down the stone passage. Another coming after, great torch in his hand, smoke and flame streaming backward his face like Death and Judgment! Brother Anselm’s breathing on her cheek, his hand seizing, pushing her, who needed no urging, for now she knew panic.

The outward-giving porter’s cell that they used—the door, quick! Through, clap it to behind, draw bolt across—opposite door, quick! Short passage again, the little postern. Anselm had the key, Brother Edward the porter sleeping elsewhere this night. Open—open! Morgen Fay knew agony until she saw the stars over Abbey orchard.

Wall and the ivy tods which made no ladder necessary. Up! and on wide wall-top rest a moment, breathe and look back. Bell was ringing, lights hurried here, hurried there in Abbey, but the orchard between lay still, at peace and bathed in moonlight. Down the wall on forest side, where footholds had been cunningly made. Brother Anselm spoke. “I will work them over so that even they cannot be found.”

“Through the poplar wood there is a path,” she said. “Go back, and I will run alone to the ruined farm. Never—never—never more, Morgen Fay!”

They spoke in whispers. “Aye, it is better. God knoweth what trouble we shall have now! But you, mistress, you will be dumb?”

“Oh, aye! All night, on pallet, under eaves, in the ruined farm, I was stretched so fast asleep! I dreamed only of my house by the river and my garden where now are blooming pinks and marigold!”

“Better that than dream of red flame!” said Anselm. “Haste now!”

He slipped back over the wall; she was in poplar wood.

The moon shone so that she could find her way. Thin wood gave into deep wood, beech, oak. Her feet felt the slight path. A doe and fawn started from her, hare bounded across, owl hooted, moon shone and light was beaten by branch and leaf into thousands and thousands of silver pieces. She ran; she felt drunken.

There was near a league to go. Her pace slowed, she stood drawing hard breath, then went on again but not running. None were after her; she heard none after her. Here clung darkness, or cold, mysterious, shifting light. The air hung cool, very still, with faint fragrances. Her mind had wings, great dark ones, and now it beat in the passages and cells of Silver Cross, and now at the ruined farm, and now about and through Somerville Hall. It went also to Middle Forest and into Montjoy’s castle. Back it beat to the ruined farm, and Somerville to-morrow, in this wood, and then London road. London road! No doubt now. London road! Her mind sought London town, but that hung distasted, weary, drear and threatening. “O Morgen, why so? Will there not be Montjoys and Somervilles there—aye, greater ones. Mayhap princely ones!” But she hated London road and London town. “Oh, what are the hands that hold me here—cannot hold but would hold!” To-morrow, to-morrow, next day at latest, London road, London road!

Going through the dark wood, she no longer felt panic. Perhaps it was so and perhaps it was not so that all Silver Cross was roused, those who knew and those who did not know. She knew that not twenty there did know; and at first she had felt the hands of all those others, the guiltless, upon her, against her. Almost she had felt their stoning. But those who knew were foxes and serpents,—cunning, cunning! They would provide safety for themselves and so for her, too, bound in the same bundle with them. “With the foxes and serpents,” she thought.

Now she walked steadily, about her mighty trees, overhead the moon, in her ears the million small forest tongues, in her nostril the smell of fern. The night did not terrify her, she was warm in her frieze cloak. She saw the ruined farm sunk in dimness and sleep. By the outside stair she would creep up to her room, Joan the serving-woman, so negligible a soul. To-morrow would come Somerville. Morgen Fay, so negligible a soul.

A voice went through her. “Who neglecteth? Soul, soul, who neglecteth?”

She would not answer. She ran again under the moon, upon the forest path.

Forest broke away. The ruined farm all in the moonlight and Margery and David sleeping like the long dead. The long dead—the long dead. “Am I the long dead?”

She crept up the stair and as she did so the cock was crowing. Here was loft chamber, here straw bed cleanly covered. Frieze cloak dropped, her body stood in moonlight, dressed in the colours and the fashion of the great picture. Morgen Fay took off the raiment and folded it and laid it upon the bench under the window. “As soon as it is light I will burn it.” She felt fatigue, overpowering, extreme, and dropped upon the bed and drew over her the cover and hid her face from the moonlight in her arms, in her hair.

But at first light she stood up. One might not sleep this morning, not yet! She put on her dress of serving-woman, took up the raiment from the bench, made it into a small bundle, covered it with her frieze cloak and went down the stair. Margrey and David stirred in their part of the house. She heard them talking, the woman screaming to the man who was deaf. A tall, blooming lilac stood by the beehives. Here she hid her bundle, went and returned with a brand from the hearth, shielded in an earthenware pitcher. Taking it up again, she bore all away from the house into stony field. Thorn trees springing up presently hid her and her ways from the house. Here, in a corner was a flat, hearth-like space. She gathered dead twigs, took her brand from the pitcher and made fire. She opened the bundle and piece by piece burned all, then with a thorn bough scattered the ashes. Mantle and veil had been left in Norbert’s cell. “Fire there, too, last night,” she thought. “Hiding fire, cleansing fire.”

At the house door Margery cried to her, “Have you baked the cakes and drawn the ale? Or have you been to Fairies’ Hill? There’s a witched look about you!”

She worked an hour and then another while Margery watched and grumbled, then when the old woman’s back was turned away she slipped. “Joan! Joan!” But she was gone to wood of beech and oak and ash. Somerville must come soon, oh, no doubt of it!

Oak and beech and ash wore the freshest green. Underneath spread grasses and flowers. The sun came down in a golden dust, birds sang, bees hummed, air held still and fine. She sat and nursed her knees, or turning stretched fair body of Morgen Fay on summer earth. He did not come, Somerville did not come. So weary was she that she slept for a while. Waking, she found the sun at noon. She must go back to the house and hear if anything had been heard. Nothing! it might as well have been in dreamland, a thousand, thousand leagues from Wander side.

She sat at the table with David and Margery, drank ale and broke bread. The two quarrelled weakly, faded leaves on the edge of winter. She felt suddenly that it was so with all things. As though it were the greatest cloud that ever she had met or had dreamed, as though it were night that made other nights light, blackness rolled over her. She rose, pushed back her stool and quit the house. Certes, the sun shone. It made no difference; she was night, night! Her feet took her to the wood, anywhere, anywhere! She must have movement. But night, night, and horror of the spirit. She groaned, she flung herself down under an oak and pressed her forehead to its great root. She was leaf that had left the tree, whirling down.

Blackness, emptiness, nothingness—but not peace, no! The end, Morgen Fay, the end, the end!

It seemed to her that she swooned, and that then she came again. Now there was evil grey, but grey.

It seemed to her that she put out her hand and that it closed upon a robe. It seemed to her that she put her forehead to this. She said, “Mother!” It seemed to her that hands came down to her and touched her, that there was a breathing, that a voice said, “O Thyself!”

She lay against trees in darkness and in ache.

Somerville found her here. “Asleep? Art asleep?”

She sat up. “No. Awake. I have done a villain thing.”

He regarded her with his odd, twitching face, somewhat pale to-day, and the smile a dry grimace. “If thou hast so, thou art like to pay for it! All came out. Your monk broke cloister and told it at town cross.”

“Yea, did he? He has manhood.”

“There was all town to hear. Father Edmund tossed thy name forth like a ball.”

She moistened her lips. “So?”

“Then the monk told it in castle hall. Montjoy believed.”

“Believed it of me? Well, I did it.”

“Then arrive Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew, riding hard from Silver Cross. Now comes about the strangest thing. I doff my cap, I lout my knee to Westforest!”

He told. She drew hard breath, then broke into terrible laughter. “So, the monk is in the madhouse and they drive a stake for me by town cross? But the Abbot and the Prior and the crew that worked for them, and Sir Robert Somerville—oh, have you no little penance at all? Must be that you are to say a hundred paternosters or give a tall wax candle! Nothing? Scot free? If they take me, I will tell!”

“If you do, it does you no good nor them any harm! Prior Matthew usually spins without a fault.”

“‘Us,’ Rob! Does ‘us’ no harm!”

He jerked his shoulders. “‘Us’ then. I was at home. Thomas Bettany brought me all this two hours agone. I came as soon as I could think it out. Search is up already, Morgen! They course here and they course there. Presently the ruined farm. I run high danger, standing talking here.”

“Begone, then! Quick, Rob, quick!”

Somerville turned red under her tone. “Naturally, I am all thy care! Thou bitter witch!”

“Didst ever burn thy finger? It is not pleasant to burn finger. Well, now, counsel!”

“Counsel is to hide as deep and as soon as may be.”

“Where?”

“I thought of those thick alders by Wander brook—a mile of them. If you lie close to the ground, and they have not dogs—”

“Dogs!”

“If search sweeps over, not finding, then to-night a wagon filled with straw will cross Wander brook at the old bridge, going Londonward. This is all that I can do. I do no more, by all the Saints!”

“Why,” she said, “I do not after all wish thee to burn beside me! Alders by Wander brook.”

He said, “Hark!” raising his hand.

They heard it, distant rout of voices. “Go!” he said. “Run! No time for love-parting! I must return to the Hall.”

“I wish no love-parting!” she answered. “That is dead. But farewell—farewell, Rob! Now you go to the Hall but I to Wander brook.”

He was listening. “They come louder!” When he turned his head, she was gone. He saw her brown dress beyond ash stem and bough; now she was deep in fern. He heard her movement, then silence. Still a brown gleam, then that vanished. He stood still, he put hands to face and drew a breath deep and long, then turning he walked rapidly through the forest to his park and his hall. The ruined farm he had already visited. David and Margery had their word. “A serving-wench? Yes, they had had one—Joan. Country from toward Minchester. But she was gone—a se’ennight since.” Somerville had climbed the steps into the loft room. Little was here of Joan or Morgen Fay. But what was, he himself had carried and given to hearth flame. There was one thing, a rose tree in a great crock, and this most carefully he had destroyed.

Now, walking fast toward Somerville Hall, he thought, “Have you done wickedly, knight? Why, not so wickedly! A little here, a little there, but no great amount anywhere. Even chance, they may not beat the alders.” He made for himself a picture of London and a little house by the Thames, and Robert Somerville coming to its door, it opening and Ailsa saying, “Why, enter, knight! Flowers and candles and wine—”

Morgen Fay crouched among rushes, beneath alders at the edge of a wide brook. It was still and sunny, warm, the water singing drowsily. Two dragon flies in blue mail. The reeds met over her head; it was still as creation dawn. A trout leaped, clouds sailed overhead, blue sky returned, vast, shining, deep as forever. A butterfly and the dragon flies, a small tortoise among reeds, a blackbird in the alders,—stillness, stillness, sun, remoteness. Her muscles relaxed. She thought, “Oh, after all—”

Then came the voices. She cowered, lay flat, looking only with terror to see if she made chasm in the reeds. They waved above her. “Oh, perhaps—perhaps—” She prayed. Then she heard the dogs, and they opened cry. She heard a shout, “They’ve got her!” and as they came with great bounds she rose from among the reeds. She would have run, but could not. She raised her voice, “Call off the dogs, and I will come to you!”