But the Abbot seemed not to notice words and mien. He cried, “O Montjoy, the holy man, good Brother Richard, hath gone mad! Yesterday he broke into a frightful babbling, the fiend at his ear, the fiends within him! The morn, Walter the leech leaving him awhile, thinking that loneliness might do somewhat, he burst window, broke cloister! Whereupon we ourselves follow him, not knowing what harm he doth to himself and to all! For alas! he now doubteth the happening of the Great Miracle and clamoureth that it was the demon. We know, alas! how at times it happeneth! Overmuch light, the weak soul bending aside from Heaven-grace, the fiends gathering to torment and perplex, and were it possible, to defeat light! The warder faints. Madness enters. Poor soul, alas! yet Heaven did use him! Heaven-grace and the miracle persists, though for him be madman’s cell--” He stood, father Abbot, in his large face godly concern for all awryness. He loomed. All Silver Cross seemed with him, Silver Cross through the centuries. Three fourths in the hall turned that way. “He crieth otherwise,” said Montjoy, and with a gesture set Brother Richard and his Superior face to face. Cried Richard Englefield, “Thou shameless, false shepherd! Thou lying Abbot of a rotted fold!” At which a young monk, Brother Wilfrid, so forgot himself, defending good, shaming ill, that he rushed against the mad monk. “Son!” thundered the Abbot and brought Brother Wilfrid to his knees, crying, “Pardon!” Truly Richard Englefield maddened. He saw how it would end, and the legion before him. His vision swam and darkened, light foam came about his lips. He sent out a loud, hoarse and broken voice. “Fraud! Fraud! Lord of Montjoy, come to Silver Cross and see!” The Black Friar, straining forward with the rest, caught at that word, “Fraud!” He did not dare to echo it aloud, for now, in a moment as it were, many a hundred year of Silver Cross, many a goodly deed and use penetrated, reverberated here, large space entering somehow small space, riving it apart. Old authority, long veneration, the great Abbey church, Montjoy’s love for it, Middle Forest’s clinging to it--Friar Martin had thundered one misty afternoon against Montjoy’s doubting of Saint Leofric. Montjoy had had to down head and slink homeward. Now Friar Martin wished to shout, “Fraud! Fraud!” and, “It began in envy of Saint Leofric his great glory!” But he was afraid. There might be no proof. If the monk were not already mad he would soon be so. Prior Matthew of Westforest moved a piece. Still, conclusive, calming, entered his voice. “It is seldom well to take madman’s advice! But here it seemeth to me well. Lord of Montjoy, you cannot do better than to ride with us to Silver Cross.”