He spoke with an energy of passion, forgetting caution. He spoke louder than his wont. They were passing through the market square and folk in numbers were about. Montjoy’s voice reached the nearer circle of these. There fell upon the centre of Middle Forest a pause, a hush. It was as though the world had come to an end! Then like a bolt from the tawny sky laced with blue and rose, fell a great voice, “You lie, lord of Montjoy!” It was so thick, loud and startling that Montjoy himself, thrilling, dragged his horse back upon haunches. Somerville, too, started. It took a moment to see that the voice proceeded from a Black Friar, a man with the frame of a giant, who had been climbing the stone stair to the upper street. They were passing the stair foot; he heard and turned. Now he was set as in a pulpit above them. His great bell voice reached half the dwindled market. The folk were already looking Montjoy and Somerville way. Those hearing Montjoy needed no explanation, but explained to their fellows. Montjoy’s words ran around the market place. With agitation a wave of folk lifted itself and began to flow toward steps and toward checked horses. The Black Friar’s voice took thunder tone. “Who discredits Saint Leofric discredits God and Our Lady and Her Son!” A woman shrilled from a booth of earthenware and hats of plaited straw. “Don’t ye anger the Saint and dry up his miracles, Montjoy! Don’t ye! My dumb daughter is coming from up the Wander. Don’t ye!” “Don’t ye!” “My palsied brother is going!” “The morn I take my child--” “Don’t ye!” A mob was gathering. Above their heads the Dominican, great figure in great pulpit, with point and energy recited as it were a rosary of Saint Leofric’s deeds, and between them scarified doubt. Said Somerville with an excited laugh, “Wasp’s nest was not empty, Montjoy!” Montjoy had power, Montjoy had his own kind of popularity. He was thought a lord of his word and of generous notions, rather a godly lord. He had the gift of shy and subtle loving, and so he loved Middle Forest and it hurt him always when they differed.--Now what? He saw in a grim flash of cold, uncaring light, that his world was not going to have Saint Leofric’s miracles false. No use saying anything-- He must even recover if he could its liking, must render harmless to himself Black Friar’s lightning. What to say? How positively to lie? Excuse stuck in his throat. At last he managed to shout forth. “You know me, good folk. If I doubt, it is not Saint Leofric that I doubt!” “Whom dost thou doubt? Prior Hugh, whose austerities, whose prayers and fastings brought the blessing? What dost thou doubt? That the woman who this morn was blind now sees?” “That you cannot doubt, Lord of Montjoy!” said Somerville in a loud voice. “Sir Humphrey Somerville and I saw that wonder! The woman _sees_--praise Our Lady and Saint Leofric!”