But at first light she stood up. One might not sleep this morning, not yet! She put on her dress of serving-woman, took up the raiment from the bench, made it into a small bundle, covered it with her frieze cloak and went down the stair. Margrey and David stirred in their part of the house. She heard them talking, the woman screaming to the man who was deaf. A tall, blooming lilac stood by the beehives. Here she hid her bundle, went and returned with a brand from the hearth, shielded in an earthenware pitcher. Taking it up again, she bore all away from the house into stony field. Thorn trees springing up presently hid her and her ways from the house. Here, in a corner was a flat, hearth-like space. She gathered dead twigs, took her brand from the pitcher and made fire. She opened the bundle and piece by piece burned all, then with a thorn bough scattered the ashes. Mantle and veil had been left in Norbert’s cell. “Fire there, too, last night,” she thought. “Hiding fire, cleansing fire.” At the house door Margery cried to her, “Have you baked the cakes and drawn the ale? Or have you been to Fairies’ Hill? There’s a witched look about you!” She worked an hour and then another while Margery watched and grumbled, then when the old woman’s back was turned away she slipped. “Joan! Joan!” But she was gone to wood of beech and oak and ash. Somerville must come soon, oh, no doubt of it! Oak and beech and ash wore the freshest green. Underneath spread grasses and flowers. The sun came down in a golden dust, birds sang, bees hummed, air held still and fine. She sat and nursed her knees, or turning stretched fair body of Morgen Fay on summer earth. He did not come, Somerville did not come. So weary was she that she slept for a while. Waking, she found the sun at noon. She must go back to the house and hear if anything had been heard. Nothing! it might as well have been in dreamland, a thousand, thousand leagues from Wander side. She sat at the table with David and Margery, drank ale and broke bread. The two quarrelled weakly, faded leaves on the edge of winter. She felt suddenly that it was so with all things. As though it were the greatest cloud that ever she had met or had dreamed, as though it were night that made other nights light, blackness rolled over her. She rose, pushed back her stool and quit the house. Certes, the sun shone. It made no difference; she was night, night! Her feet took her to the wood, anywhere, anywhere! She must have movement. But night, night, and horror of the spirit. She groaned, she flung herself down under an oak and pressed her forehead to its great root. She was leaf that had left the tree, whirling down. Blackness, emptiness, nothingness--but not peace, no! The end, Morgen Fay, the end, the end! It seemed to her that she swooned, and that then she came again. Now there was evil grey, but grey.