regimen, time out of mind, for mad monk! They went. The cell was like a tomb, and he bound in it. It was dark, with a faint sense of morning in the air. Despite all weakening Richard Englefield was yet strong of body. And he had rage that came like a giant to possess him, and a will that was now gathered, collected, and hurled through space to one point. He broke the cord that bound his arms. This done he could free himself from the gag and unknot at last the rope that bound him to the stanchions. It was now to break stanchion and cross bar and clear the window. He did this. He climbed through the window, held by his hands, dropped to earth. It had been impossible to the sub-prior or to Brother Norbert, but it was not impossible to him. It was all done quickly. Stone rang beneath his feet. Light shone in the Abbot’s house. Doubtless all were gathered there,--the thieves and murderers! Where was that one, that painted fiend, who had given him cap and bells to wear through life? Through life--through eternity! The church rose dark. He looked at the stars above it, and they seemed to him sparks from a mean and smoky fire. Now he was at Silver Cross outer wall. He climbed it and came down upon the other side with cuts and bruises that he did not feel. A palest light shone in the east. Behind him, over him, he heard the bell for lauds. He knew where ran the highway down Wander vale to Middle Forest. He went straight like a wild wind blowing down. All since he had waked was done as it were in one moment. CHAPTER XV In Middle Forest it was market morning, high May weather and many abroad. Country folk, town folk, folk from across river made a humming and buzzing in High Street and the market place. The sun was an hour up, and all thrifty marketers out of house. Saint Ethelred’s bells rang, the Carmelites’, the Poor Clares’. Father Edmund walked about; there were two of Leofric’s friars from over river. May sun struck the castle, up the steep hill from market. The bells stopped. Eyes, thoughts, turned this way and that. A Silver Cross monk sped like an arrow through the market place. He was at town cross, on the lower step, on the upper step. He faced around. “Middle Forest! Ho, Middle Forest!” They recognized him. All the countryside, flocking now to Silver Cross church, had sought with their eyes for Brother Richard. Near or at distance, he had been pointed out to many. A cry arose and spread. “The monk of Silver Cross!” Those close at hand came closer; those afar hastened to the thickening centre. He flung his arms out and up. He seemed to appeal to Middle Forest, but also to high heaven,--or he seemed to threaten high heaven. His voice rang and reached like Montjoy’s trumpets. He told what he had to tell, and all those ears drank it in and all those eyes stared and mouths gaped. He had power, and now it was power at the top of its straining. As he told, what he told they believed.