Richard Englefield, in Westforest cell, might lie without movement, head buried in arms, but that was when he must sleep in order to gain and keep strength, or when Prior or Brother Anselm visited him, it being posture good as another for a monk now in sooth going melancholy mad.

Once Brother Anselm, who had been taken from strollers playing in barns and inns, said to the Prior, “He playeth!” Whereupon the Prior strictly watched, but at last said, “Not so. Truth!” And then, like such chess masters, because he had bent what he thought all his mind to it and was assured, he obstinated in his opinion of the board and every piece upon it. “No, it is truth! I have seen it before. Melancholy that forgets how to speak and then after a time mere childishness that will not stint from speaking, though it be only of green fields and cowslip balls! Then silence again like an old sick hound and at last he dies!”

Brother Anselm’s doubt had been but momentary. He agreed now with Prior. Also he said, “One helpeth forth the sick hound.”

The Prior of Westforest took his lean chin from his lean hand. “I have heard that the Greeks writ over their temples, ‘Nothing too much.’ Where the good of all is in question let the soul take necessary burdens, but not unnecessary ones! This were unnecessary.”

Richard Englefield was not going melancholy mad, though he played that he was. He worked. He worked while he lay still upon the cold floor, face hidden by stretched arms, or when he sat moveless, staring into naught with empty, woe-begone face. “Think me melancholy mad, do! So the sooner will you leave me the cell!” They went. For hours he had the dim place to himself, and at night he had it.

Monk of Silver Cross was gone, whirled away to the dark country behind Chaos and there dead and buried peacefully. Here was Richard Englefield the master goldsmith. And yet not that either. Here was one who had risen behind goldsmith and monk, who had come up like a tree that was not suspected.

He worked, Richard the smith. He gained, no man knew how, two bits of iron. The cell was grated. He filed through a bar and then another, and in the night-time broke the whole away. Fortune or wonder or the miraculous or some natural air into which he had broken was with him. It might have been the last, his will was so awakened, so in action. His fury towered, but it was still fury, very deep and dangerous, bitter passion of a man with mind and will. He saw Success and drew her to him as giants draw. In the dead night he got away.

Westforest formed but a small House and it lay close to Wander. Stripping off his robe he made it into a bundle and with rope girdle tied it upon his shoulders. Then, naked, he plunged into the Wander and swam a mile downstream. Coming to the bank he rested, then swam the second mile, under the late risen moon. Cocks were crowing. He passed grey meadow and dreaming corn and came to a forest where it overhung the Wander. “Here is good place to leave!” He quit the water, shook his body and dried it with fern, untied and unrolled monk’s gown and put it on. “Brother Richard? Nay, monk is as will is! Richard Englefield, a smith in gold and silver!”

He was away now from Wander, in the forest, the morn pink above the trees, violet among and beneath the branches. In yonder direction lay Silver Cross and not so far, neither. Middle Forest! Could he get, unmarked, to Middle Forest. Had he one friend there—but he had none. Could he get to the shipping upon the river, below the bridge. Could he find a boat that would take him to the sea and then he cared not where! He saw Success. “Aye, I will!” But this robe must somehow be changed for world-dress, and he must have a purse and money in it. Hard to manage! But Success was his Moorish slave and would bring them.

He strode on. He was going toward the town through what was left of the ancient, all-covering forest. Hereabouts was yet a great wood with deer and hare and bird and fox. Paths ran through but between them spread bounteously the forest. First light gave way to gold light. He was hungry. He took the crust of bread that he had saved from yesterday and ate it as he walked. Also he found strawberries. When the sun was well up he came to rest under an oak, to think it out.

He had some hope that Westforest would hold that he had drowned himself. Yesterday had been a hot and livid day, ending in storm. They would be able to trace him to the water edge. Would they drag the Wander, seeing that the Prior must wish to make sure? But the Wander running swiftly might carry him down. Using Prior Matthew’s eyes he saw monk caught among stones on Wander bottom, or, a log, shoved down Wander length to greater river and so at last to sea, white bones for merman’s children. He thought with Prior’s brain, “So, it is very well!” And if Wander had him not, but he strayed on dry land, Brother Richard of Silver Cross, mad now though once greatly blessed, there would ensue some trouble of taking him, some explaining, but no more than that! Richard Englefield saw the net, how strong and wide it was, the fishers here being so much mightier than the fish. So mighty were they that they could spare the fish even if it leapt clear. For if it went and told all other fish and fishermen, what odds? Mind in all was made up what to believe! Richard Englefield laughed, but his laughter was worse to hear than had been sobbing.

He tried to make a plan, but it was hard to plan out of this! Best still trust Success. He took a pebble and tossed it, then followed it. Narrow road little travelled. He walked upon this some way and saw a horseman coming. Out of track into a hazel brake, wait and see what like he might be! Sun glinted, boughs waved, birds sang, over all things lay a pearly moisture after storm.

Young Thomas Bettany, riding from town because town oppressed him, taking idle way and ancient road because to-day bustle liked him not, errandless and leaving John Cobb at home, rode through the old forest with hanging head. He would mend the world if he knew how, but he did not know how.

Coming to brake his horse started aside. Thomas crossed himself. A monk was standing there, seemed to have stepped forth from it. “Is it a ghost? By Saint John, Brother! you look it and you do not look it!”

He knew him now, having seen him at Silver Cross thrice, maybe, since the finding of Holy Well. Thomas Bettany felt himself tremble a little. Brother Richard—if he were mad—but then he remembered himself that he was hardly so! They said he was mad, an Abbot and a Prior whose deeds might not be scanned. Brother Richard! Though some were guilty the monk was not. Again he saw things “in a flash.” The monstrous disappointment—Heaven’s boon companion, then fall—fall—fall! How sharp the stones and black the land!

He spoke in a whisper. “Did you break last night from Westforest?” All the countryside knew that Brother Richard, now alas! utterly mad, was to be hidden there in a grated cell.

Richard Englefield knew not why Success was here. He said, “You know me then? Who are you?”

“Thomas Bettany, merchant’s son.”

“I greatly need,” said the man by the hazels, “burgher’s dress, a purse of money, and to reach some ship in river that presently makes sail.” Having spoken, he waited again upon Success.

“I shall have to ride to Middle Forest and back,” said Thomas Bettany. “Over yonder a mile lies a ruined farm. No one goes by wood that way. Walk till you see the house through trees, then lie close till I come.” Few words more and he turned horse and presently disappeared down the leafy road.

Englefield moved off into deep forest toward the ruined farm. It was Success. It was of a piece with breaking free from Priory. Maybe there were gods who said, “Thou touchedst nadir, now we let thee rise!” Maybe it was the Will, so fulfilled and potent that it became magician. Trust far enough, and the bird comes flying! But not trust like that at Silver Cross—no!

Deep wood, beech and ash and oak, very silent, very lonely. At last it thinned and he saw through trees an old, small, ruinous farmhouse, broken, neglected, haunted maybe. He made out a man slowly working in a field. A grey horse grazed, a cock crew, but there seemed no dog to bark.

He drew back under trees, found a bed of leaf and moss and threw himself down. He was tired, tired! Body was tired but not spirit. That should not flag. No, no! said the will. But sleep—it was necessary to sleep.

He did so for a time, but then he waked clearly and suddenly. Where he had been in dreams he did not know, nor where in the deep realm behind dreams. But there had been large and happy stillness, full ocean and serene sky. Whence—whence? From heaven, and had he mounted there, the True Ones pitying? From heaven’s opposite? Then again had come upon him that rapture that befell at Silver Cross—three nights’ rapture—rapture at the feet of a harlot of harlots! Evil had been the rapture through and through, that had seemed so heavenly glorious, heavenly sweet! Never to have guessed—never to have known—to have been incapable of knowledge! True and false alike to him, hideousness and beauty alike, he who had thought he knew beauty! Incapable—incapable. That had seemed Success—oh, high Success!

The sun rode high and streamed in warmly. He found shadow and lay upon his face, arms outstretched along the earth, hands breaking twigs with which the ground was strewn.

This part of earth looked full to sun, then glided from strongest vision, then took it obliquely, beginning to think of cool, dark rest from it, filled with memories. At three by country dials he heard a horse brushing through the forest and presently saw Bettany with merchant’s pack strapped before him, not a pack large and noticeable, but sufficing to show that the House of Bettany attended to business and was not too proud to attend in person.

At four by dial Richard Englefield stood under the oak in good hosen, shoon, shirt and doublet, with cap, with cloak, with leather belt and knife, with leather purse and silver in it and hidden in bosom pocket woollen purse with gold. Gaunt he was as any wolf, and overcast with pallour, needing days of sun and air to bring him back to what he was a year ago in Silver Cross, or further back to the gold-brown master smith not unknown in cities and in princes’ courts. Just that smith would never come back. This smith had himself been laid upon a Vulcan’s anvil. The fire showed, the hammer showed.

Thomas Bettany said, “Monk not again because of them hereabouts?”

“Not so. Because of myself.”

The other continued, “God wot there is not the old saintliness! I have heard wise men cry that unless there came reform God will loose lions.”

“Perhaps. But come as it may I am absolved from monastery.”

“Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew be not everywhere. There are good abbots, good, religious houses—”

“Aye, I doubt not. Even at Silver Cross and Westforest are some true pilgrims and finders. But I am absolved. Brother Richard lies drowned in Wander. This is Richard Englefield, a smith in gold and silver. But since it may not be wisdom to say that till I reach London port or maybe France, then Richard Dawn, a traveller. What of ship?”

“It is the Vineyard, lying in the pool and sailing day after to-morrow at dawn. The master, a young man, Diccon Wright, is beholden to me. I found him at the Golden Ship, and he will do it.”

“Day after to-morrow at dawn.”

“There is nothing for it,” said Bettany, “but that you should bide where you are through to-night and to-morrow. Then at eve I will come with a horse for you. Canst ride?”

“Oh, aye!”

“There is no moon. We make through country to pool side and find there a boat that Diccon sends. So the Vineyard and away.”

“You are good to me, brother!”

The other answered, “I somehow owe it. And not to you only. But here only does it seem that I can pay.”

He took from pack loaf of bread, pound of cheese and a bottle of ale. “Here we be! Nay, I have had dinner. Well, I will eat a little to keep you in countenance, Master Dawn!”

They ate under the greenwood tree, close screened around with thorn and fern. “It will be cold to-night sleeping here. There is a loft at the farm. The old man and woman dodder and are blind and deaf. There is a straw bed. But strange and elfin were it, I think,” said Bettany slowly, “if you slept there.”

“In old years I have slept out colder nights than this is like to be. And a cell is cold.”

“Well, the cloak is thick. Nay, drink! I may have my fill when I get back to father’s house.”