He ate little, slept little. He crucified his body. Like the insistent sweet ringing of a bell, forever, forever, Silver Cross suggested, suggested. Surely, in some sort, heaven should descend! He was earning it. He began to have visions, but they were pale, confused, forms without significance or with the significance hidden. They said naught that might lift the Abbey of Silver Cross to a height that should equal Saint Leofric’s mount. Twelfth night--Candlemas Day--Lent in sight--and Saint Leofric blazing high! Not that only, but Middle Forest beginning to manifest holiness and uncloak sin. Father Edmund of Saint Ethelred had no vision but the vision of a rod for the wicked. But he had a preaching power! He stood upon the steps of town cross and his white heat turned the icicles to water. The sinner, Morgen Fay, was fled,--none knew whither. They said likely to London town. They sacked her house, they drummed the old woman and the youth, her servants, out of town. Both sides of river and up Wander vale, enthusiasm gathered light in eyes, red in cheeks. There began to be prophets and religious dancers. In Middle Forest High Street appeared a band of flagellants. The air was taking fire. “Now, now or never!” said Prior Matthew. The ruined farm, that had been small and poor even before fire had half destroyed it, stood gaunt, blackened, sunk in loneliness behind winter forest through which few walked. Margery and David, blear-eyed and simple, living in the part that held together, found the helper-woman, Joan, strong but moody, now ready to laugh at a little thing and now dark as a tempest over the wood that shut out the world. Somerville the master had said, “Take her!” They had obeyed, and if they speculated it was sluggishly. Past the holly copse stretched land of Silver Cross, woodland with a woodman’s path through. Somerville came by this. He talked with Joan or with Morgen Fay under the hollies where the berries were so red and the leaves so glossy and barbed. She said vehemently, “No!” and she said, “No!” and “No!” again, but more dully, pettishly. “It’s sin. I’ve done much, but I haven’t done that!” “You choose then a powerful enemy--” She raised her arms above her head. “If you will show me where the world is not wicked--!” “Psha! Do you remember a foggy night when we talked? Return to that mood and say, ‘It is a play, and I can do it wonderfully!’ You could--you can!” “I do not see that Abbot Mark can harm me more than I am harmed!” “Think you so? Should there come a band of monks to break the house and hale you forth--strip you and fling you into Wander, or maybe into fire? If Silver Cross but speaks to Saint Ethelred, Abbot Mark to Father Edmund? If I withdraw my hand? Do not look like a queen in a book! I mean only that in no wise can I save you further. Montjoy is not powerful enough, even if he would, and I have here less power of arm than has he. You must save yourself.”