"Well, you are a good maid—young lady, I should say!" said Cicely, correcting herself, for she had lived in a great family, and prided herself on her knowledge of manners. "You are not one as thinkst first and always of herself. But don't you be out after dark—there's a good maid, and above all, don't go near the old chapel." I hastened to change my dress, and to attend to my patient, who was doing well. Then seeking out Master Yates, I told him of my adventure. "Ay, I heard the signal and saw the light, and guessed it was my good old landlord who needed help!" said Master Yates, thoughtfully stroking his beard. "I had word by a sure hand that he was to be expected, and had all things in readiness, and I was studying to advertise you of the same. I did not like to tell you till I was sure, for fear of a disappointment. To-night, then, at midnight we will seek the place, if you be not afraid—but I see I need not talk of that!" he added, smiling. "No indeed!" said I. "At midnight, then, I will be ready." The chime of midnight from the church-tower found me well wrapped up and clinging to Master Yates's arm, making our way across the stack-yard and along the edge of the standing corn to the ruined cell. We found mine uncle asleep, but a word roused him. "Now I can give you three hours for your converse," said Master Yates. "The nights are longer than they were, but the stroke of three must be the signal for parting. I dare not make it later lest some one should be stirring." So saying, he took a rug from the truckle bed, and throwing himself on a heap of straw in the outer room, he soon gave audible tokens of being sound asleep. "There lies one of the best men ever made!" said mine uncle. "But for him and his good wife, many a man would be but a heap of charred bones and white ashes who is now preaching the word." "He said he had word of your coming beforehand," said I; "how was that?" My uncle smiled. "That I may hardly tell you, only I may say as much as this, that they of the new religion, as folks call it, have secret intelligence one with another, whereby many a precious life hath been saved both here and abroad, mine own and that of my good son Winter, Katherine's husband, among the number." "Then Katherine is married?" said I. "Oh yes, and well married, though not brilliantly as regards this world's goods. Her husband is pastor of the English reformed congregation at Middleburg. You must remember him—Arthur Winter, whose father lived in the Minories." "But he was a priest!" said I. My uncle smiled. "Read your Bible from beginning to end, child, and if you can find one word which makes it unlawful for a priest to marry, I give you free leave to call my Katherine by the worst name you can think of." Somehow these words did seem like a gleam of light on a dark night; but I had no time to dwell on them just now. "And Avice—?"