The castle hill was sunny, the castle gate was dim, the castle court sunny, the castle hall dim. So many folk buzzed on castle road, below wall; so many were let into court and buzzed there, so many entered hall. From castle hill, if you looked Silver Cross way, you might see rapidly moving dust, growing larger, coming nearer. That was Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew. CHAPTER XVI Montjoy--yes, Montjoy! A house that he had loved came down about Montjoy’s ears. A garden that he had tended the swine rooted up. One came and threw filth against his Love. He seemed to understand this monk and the monk to understand him. For an instant they were brothers in suffering and rage. Sow it with salt--Silver Cross! Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew. Who best to send to cardinal and to Rome on that business? Procure their degradation! Have them cursed with bell, book and candle! The whore--let her be burned slowly until she was ashes! _O Isabel--Isabel--Isabel!_ O Kingdom of Heaven that hath suffered wrong! Montjoy sat with a working face. He sat in his great chair on the dais in castle hall and his hands gripped the arms of the chair. At last he spoke with voice of one underground who has fire still but has lost the light of day. “Well, as for thee, monk--” “Give me, no more, that name!” cried the man addressed. “The monk is dead. I am Richard Englefield, the Smith!” At that moment entered bruit of the arrival of Abbot and Prior. “Yes, yes, let us see them!” said Montjoy, and who knows what hope sprang up in his heart. He believed Richard Englefield, but there pressed against his belief all the weight of old, loved Silver Cross, and the weight of the priest and the weight of Mother Church. Things happened, vile things, as they happened in Kingdom, in Nobility and Knighthood. But for all that Knighthood was heroic and Holy Church holy. Child could not go against mother, lover against beloved. Let us at any rate hear what this Iscariot Abbot and Prior shall say! And with that rolled for the first time upon Montjoy’s mind Saint Leofric, and he heard the joy of Hugh who was not discovered. “That this vileness that he saith were not true!” cried Montjoy within. “O Isabel, that it were not true!” _Morgen Fay!_ The Lord of Montjoy was dead ember there, and all the breathing of Morgen Fay might not relume. “O High God, I would live cleanly! That harlot, wherever she is, doth always only evil!” Silver Cross--Silver Cross! The church, Isabel’s tomb and the great picture. He saw that Morgen Fay could have played it because she had the height and faintly, faintly the face. Isabel was the true likeness and Morgen Fay the false, the evil. “Let her burn, who deserveth it if ever any did!” Silver Cross, and cold wretchedness and grinning, mocking Satan if it were no better than Saint Leofric! Mark a kinsman, too. All honour smirched!