It seemed to her that she put out her hand and that it closed upon a robe. It seemed to her that she put her forehead to this. She said, “Mother!” It seemed to her that hands came down to her and touched her, that there was a breathing, that a voice said, “O Thyself!” She lay against trees in darkness and in ache. Somerville found her here. “Asleep? Art asleep?” She sat up. “No. Awake. I have done a villain thing.” He regarded her with his odd, twitching face, somewhat pale to-day, and the smile a dry grimace. “If thou hast so, thou art like to pay for it! All came out. Your monk broke cloister and told it at town cross.” “Yea, did he? He has manhood.” “There was all town to hear. Father Edmund tossed thy name forth like a ball.” She moistened her lips. “So?” “Then the monk told it in castle hall. Montjoy believed.” “Believed it of me? Well, I did it.” “Then arrive Abbot Mark and Prior Matthew, riding hard from Silver Cross. Now comes about the strangest thing. I doff my cap, I lout my knee to Westforest!” He told. She drew hard breath, then broke into terrible laughter. “So, the monk is in the madhouse and they drive a stake for me by town cross? But the Abbot and the Prior and the crew that worked for them, and Sir Robert Somerville--oh, have you no little penance at all? Must be that you are to say a hundred paternosters or give a tall wax candle! Nothing? Scot free? If they take me, I will tell!” “If you do, it does you no good nor them any harm! Prior Matthew usually spins without a fault.” “‘Us,’ Rob! Does ‘us’ no harm!” He jerked his shoulders. “‘Us’ then. I was at home. Thomas Bettany brought me all this two hours agone. I came as soon as I could think it out. Search is up already, Morgen! They course here and they course there. Presently the ruined farm. I run high danger, standing talking here.” “Begone, then! Quick, Rob, quick!” Somerville turned red under her tone. “Naturally, I am all thy care! Thou bitter witch!” “Didst ever burn thy finger? It is not pleasant to burn finger. Well, now, counsel!” “Counsel is to hide as deep and as soon as may be.” “Where?” “I thought of those thick alders by Wander brook--a mile of them. If you lie close to the ground, and they have not dogs--” “Dogs!” “If search sweeps over, not finding, then to-night a wagon filled with straw will cross Wander brook at the old bridge, going Londonward. This is all that I can do. I do no more, by all the Saints!” “Why,” she said, “I do not after all wish thee to burn beside me! Alders by Wander brook.” He said, “Hark!” raising his hand. They heard it, distant rout of voices. “Go!” he said. “Run! No time for love-parting! I must return to the Hall.” “I wish no love-parting!” she answered. “That is dead. But farewell--farewell, Rob! Now you go to the Hall but I to Wander brook.”