He came down and gave the signal. The sad procession started; they descended the steps to the courtyard. Redwald had left some forty or fifty men behind—men who had grown old in arms, and who, if they had pleased, might perhaps have stopped the exit, but they were not sufficiently in the confidence of their leader to take the initiative; and the only man who was in his confidence, and whom he had charged to see that no one departed, was fortunately at that moment in another part of the building. The sentinel at the drawbridge was one of Redwald’s troop. He menaced opposition, and refused to let the drawbridge be peaceably lowered. “Art thou a Christian?” said Father Cuthbert, coming forward in his priestly attire, “and dost thou presume to interfere with a servant of the Lord and to delay a funeral?” “I must obey my orders.” “Then I will excommunicate thee, and deliver thy soul to Satan.” And he began to utter some awful Latin imprecation, which so aroused the superstition of the sentinel that he made no further opposition, which perhaps saved his life, for the retainers of Æscendune were meditating instant violence, indignant at the delay and the outrage to their lady. They themselves let the drawbridge down and guarded the sad cortege over the plain. Their numbers increased every moment, and before they reached the neighbourhood of the priory they had little cause to fear any attack, should Redwald have arrived and have been rash enough to attempt one. The old parsonage house, which had served for the residence of each successive parish prior or mass-thane, was a large and commodious building, containing all such accommodation as the family absolutely required in the emergency, while furniture, provision and comforts of all kinds were sent over from the priory, for the good fathers did not forget at this hour of need that they owed their own home to the liberality of Ella and his father. So when they had deposited the loved remains before the altar of the church, and had knelt a brief season in prayer, the exiled family took possession of their temporary home. It was hard—very hard—to give up their loved dwelling at such a season of affliction, but the dread which Redwald had somehow inspired made it a great relief to be removed from his immediate presence. Yet they could give no reason for the feeling they all shared. Father Cuthbert evidently suspected, or knew, things which he as yet concealed from them. “Who could have slain the husband and father?” This was the unanswered question. Their suspicions could only turn to Redwald or some of his crew: no marauders were known to lurk in the forest; there was, they felt assured, not one of his own people who would not have died in his defence. Again, it was not the lust of gold which had suggested the deed, for they had found the gold chain he wore untouched. What then could have been the motive of the murderer?