Monjoy had heard the marching of fresh troops down the Fullergate, and, at intervals during the afternoon, distant confused roars. Of Webster’s stackyard he knew nothing. Moon’s message came; he was mortally weary of that dingy garret, and he waited impatiently till nightfall. Ten o’clock came, and he still waited, hearing movements out in the town; and then the Piece Hall bell struck eleven. All was quiet, and he opened the crane doors. He flung his rope over the crane-arm, and as he did so saw why Matthew had sent one so long; he could descend by it doubled and take it away instead of leaving it dangling. He stood on the narrow sill, closed the doors behind him, and slipped to earth. The night was moonless and dark. Quickly he crossed yards and gardens and crofts, and now and then poultry stirred or a dog barked. He had so mapped out his way that he had only two deserted streets to cross. Down the first of them a soldier marched, making noise enough for ten, and Monjoy waited till his tramp sounded in the distance and crossed swiftly and noiselessly. He continued over walls and across more gardens. One light only burned, and he passed it within a hundred yards; it was the window of the chamber where Cicely watched Sally. He stopped for a minute and regarded it; then he passed on again to the fields above the Shelf road. At one o’clock in the morning he knocked at the parson’s door and was admitted. He was led to a room on the ground floor without light; a couch was indicated to him, and he was left without a word. Of the morning’s interview with the parson a word or two must be said. It occurred at eight o’clock, in the same room--a little back study on the ground floor. Of the two breakfasts that the parson had laid with his own hands, one--his own--was untouched. The study was but four strides long, and the parson walked and turned, and walked again. His big guest leaned forward in a chair, watching him, and flipping the fingers of his right hand against the knuckles of his left. There were signs that the parson had not slept. Suddenly he stopped in his walk, and smiled faintly. “No, I am not one whit nearer to it, Monjoy,” he said. Monjoy hoisted his shoulders; it was not for him to speak. “And for what your wife said,” the parson continued, “you will understand that I hardly feel at liberty to repeat the whole of it.” “No, no; Cis would be wrought up; leave her out, poor lass.” “That, of course,” said the parson with a nod; “but I was thinking more particularly of what she said of you, not of herself. Hm!... You’ll observe that during our talk I’ve made no attempt to--let us say, improve the occasion.” This time Monjoy nodded.