Not John Cobb but Thomas Bettany, who knew whom here he could trust, sat on a Wednesday afternoon in gaoler’s room, drank ale with Godfrey and once more petitioned for one look at the witch.

“Nay, nay!” said Godfrey and shook his huge head. “Rule is rule! Time was I wouldn’t ha’ minded pleasuring you, Master Thomas, but word has come and a downright word, too, from powers. ‘Look you, Godfrey, that you do not open that door to any save Father Edmund who preaches to witch so that it may not be said she goes to hell without preaching!’ So I do not so. You are not the first gallant who hath come and said, ‘Godfrey, let me have a look at the witch!’ But no, says I to all. Rule is rule!” He set down his can. “I could tell you, but I won’t. Not just young will-o’-wisps like you, but one that’s older and should be weightier! But I won’t call name.”

“I can call it for you,” thought the other. “It was Somerville.”

“Coming by night, too!” said Godfrey.

Young Master Thomas Bettany made a pettish movement. “Saint John! What’s the use of carrying that great bunch of keys if you cannot turn them at your will! Let me weigh them now!”

Godfrey, smiling broadly, laid the bunch on table. He was a giant, and Thomas Bettany had been known to him since he was urchin and went by to school. “Great key—inner ward—key you turn on her?”

Godfrey nodded. “Eh, eh! She has been a fair woman, has she not, and danced lightly? Marsh fire, will-o’-wisp! Now she lies all her length on cold ground, and when I open the door she saith, ‘Is’t Friday?’”

“Hark ye! Some one’s knocking.”

Godfrey turned head. “It sounds as they were!” Rising from table, he went to the door. “Nay, only noise in the street.”

“I thought it was the other door.”

Godfrey stepped from the room and walked a little way down the stone passage. He returned. “‘Tis nothing! And William sits there to answer.”

“If William wakes now how doth he keep awake by door yonder at night?”

“He gets sleep enough. Prowling around, sometimes I find him sleeping when he should be waking! But there be few in prison and little trouble. In old times, when the kings were fighting together, it was different!”

He took up the keys and fastened them at his belt. “If any could bring witch to confession you’d think it would be Father Edmund, wouldn’t ye? But she’s like a block!”

“Confess what?”

“Just all the story of how the devil came to her and she sold him her soul for ease and triumph. But he’s not a bargain-keeper—never was! And how he flew with her through air and stone wall, and set her in Brother Richard’s cell, in place of Queen of Heaven. What she said and did, and how the devil, all of a sudden seeing that heaven had struck Brother Richard with the knowledge, ‘This is not the Queen, this is not the true bright one!’ went about to confuse all Brother Richard’s wits, turning him into worse than Doubting Thomas, for now he doubts all things both before and after. But she sticks to saying, ‘It was I from the first, and the devil was Prior Matthew, Abbot Mark consenting.’ And Father Edmund preacheth again. Eh, but Friday cometh and she will soon be but a story! Morgen Fay and the devil.”

Thomas Bettany rode once more with merchant’s pack to Wander forest, having first gone to Golden Ship by the water side, where he met Diccon Wright and bought him with love. It was again rose dawn. To one who at edge of town stopped and questioned him, he said that he was riding to Somerville Hall.

“Do you not know Sir Robert has gone to London? He rode away yesterday with three behind him.”

“Oh, aye! But there was message left for me. One day I’ll travel myself! View Rome and Constantinople and Cambalu.”

“It’s in my mind that he did not wish to see Morgen Fay burn.”

“Maybe so! I’d rather myself see fairies by moonlight or a fair still garden.”

Ruined farm and David and Margery to whom gentlemen were gentlemen, whatever strange things they wished, and rose nobles were rose nobles. “Oh, aye! Who is there for us to tattle to save it be Dobbin and the cow? There’s naught doing like that Joan who turned to be a witch named Morgen? We might ha’ had trouble there, but Somerville stepped in and turned it aside. So you’ll ha’ to do, Master Bettany, if there’s any mistaken doing here—”

“Aye, I will. But there’s none.”

This was a day of gold dust, still, warm, a haze and floating stillness. Ruined farm and forest hereabouts might have had a hedge around them like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. No ears heard fine smithwork, for Philemon and Baucis were deaf, and went beside to planted field. The fairies might have heard.

Mid-afternoon Thomas Bettany returned to town. Near the old wall, now on the high road, he overtook a string of pilgrims footweary and dusty. The leader hailed him, handsome young burgher riding a fine horse. “Canst tell us, master, what inn is best for us?”

“Try the Joyful Mountain. Whence do you come?”

From Minchester, it seemed. To Saint Leofric and Silver Cross. “And we’ve just heard news about a fearful witch and that she’ll be burned to-morrow. We shall see that first. Thank ye, and our blessing, master!”

Thomas Bettany gave to his family the supper hour and showed himself during it affectionate son and brother. “Eh, Thomas!” thought the old merchant, and like the pilgrims he, too, gave him blessing, though an inner one.

Marian, his sister, who was a mouse for quietness, said suddenly, “Oh, I would that to-morrow were gone by! If I were Morgen Fay to-night—”

Master Eustace Bettany rated her. “Say naught like that even in jest!”

“I was not jesting.”

“Thou’rt so far from Morgen Fay that thou shalt not say, ‘If I were Morgen Fay—’”

“She is woman.”

“Witches have left womanhood. Be silent!”

Table was taken away. Eustace Bettany disappeared through the door which led to countinghouse. Marian came to Thomas in the deep window. “Stay awhile, Thomas, and read with me ‘Romaunt of the Rose!’ Cousin hath sent us, too, ‘The Grey Damsel and Sir Launfal.’”

But Thomas could not stay. He kissed her and went forth into the sunset. By town cross they were piling wood. Saint Ethelred’s bells rang. The young man stood and prayed.

Dusk came over all like brooding wings. Stars brightened above the castle. Up there Montjoy, seated in his great chair, listened to Prior Matthew of Westforest.

“Not to hear of it till now—!”

“It is not yet three nights ago, Montjoy. And it seemed, and still seemeth best to seek quietly. We have had, to my mind, too much indeed of buzz and clatter! I wish for quiet to descend upon us.”

“Ah, I also!” sighed Montjoy. “So the soul may return to her proper work! But open—all things should be open!”

“In reason, aye! But the world is idle and will make scandal if it may.”

Montjoy pressed back of clasped hands over eyes. “The world is thistle and precipice! I have fearful dreams at night. Welcome will it be to me, oh Christ, when I may go my pilgrimage!” Rising from his chair he walked to and fro, then returning to the table, laid touch upon a great and splendidly bound book, fine work upon fine parchment, illuminated head letters and borders. He touched it reverently. “See you, so beautifully done, two hundred years ago! Chronicle of Silver Cross. I have been reading as I have read a hundred times! Miracles then a-plenty, and such goodness, such spiritual men, that all seemed grown pure Nature! I thought the gloss and freshness were all back, but I do not know—I do not know—I do not know!”

Prior Matthew said quietly, “Until this madness Brother Richard was a good and holy monk. How else should Heaven have found him as glass to shine through? And now if, as we think, he lies drowned in Wander, it does not seem to us self-murder. The mad are not accountable there. Again, he may have slipped and fallen. So now Our Lord may clear his mind, and his purgatory done, he will again be wise and holy.”

“Purgatory lasteth long!” said Montjoy. “Thistle and mire pit, thirsty desert, precipices! And what if he did not drown but roams at large, telling with flaming eyes and tolling voice and large gesture his story of not one but many Satans?”

“The whole region knows that he is mad. Were he so abroad, how long before we should have known it? Oh, we have questioners and seekers out, but quietly! Hour by hour Wander grows to us the more certain. Yesterday we dragged, but the water runs swiftly and may have carried him down.”

“Death. Well, who should tremble at that unless he be sold to wickedness?”

Through open windows they heard compline bell. “To-morrow draws on. There will be a great concourse. Saint Leofric and Silver Cross and Westforest, country folk and all the town, seamen and pilgrims. And what to see? A woman burning.”

The Prior spoke serenely, invisibly his hand making final move, providing mate. “Nay, Montjoy, Good vindicated, Ill consumed, Warning spread!”

Thomas Bettany absented himself from Middle Forest.

Dark night, clear and dark. Lights twinkled in tall houses, lantern and torch twinkled and flared in narrow streets. Glowworm points from those belated moved over the bridge. Night deepened. Lights went out one by one, cluster by cluster. Now there were great spaces of naught between twinklers and flarers. Dark space widened, twinklers and flarers growing lonely, separated afar from one another. Ships below the bridge had lanterns, but the ships were few. Lights lessened, lessened, until you might say Middle Forest was in darkness. Lanterns of the watch went slowly about, but wary eye might know where watch had been and where it was now and where it would presently be. Cautious foot might tread among the three. Of course, if shout were raised, watch hearing it would come running.

Midnight and after.

Godfrey had good wine to-night, brought him by Master Thomas Bettany. Godfrey thought, “Brought for present to soften me to let him look at the witch!” He grinned and took the wine but kept to “Rule is rule!” “Very fine Jerez sack,” explained the young merchant, “out of a lot bought in London. And will you give a stoup to William and Diggory? Diggory is a great fellow of his inches! I saw him Sunday wrestling in long meadow.”

Godfrey drank the Jerez wine with his supper, and he poured a great cup for William and for Diggory. They drank. “Aye, aye! Bettany knows how to choose the best!”

Deep night.