Silver Cross--Silver Cross--Silver Cross! The splendour must run through it, bathing the tomb of Isabel, bathing the life-above-death of Isabel! Bathing also Silver Cross, church and abbey, the old form, antique, fair, one’s Lady, old yet young through the centuries! The soul. How to keep the soul in joy? If not in joy, at least in humble peace. Montjoy saw himself a grey palmer, state and place laid down. His daughter wedded come Martinmas to Effingham--another year and her son born--then he might go and have word with his own suzerain. Palmer--the road, the shrines, the houses of the religious; quiet, quiet, unobstructed room for dreams of God. The sky was lead, the light greenish, the air hot and still. He would be glad when the storm burst and the land was drenched. Afterward it would smile once more. He thought, “The Flood is needed again, so wicked is the earth! Oh, my God, am I of the family of Noah? Do I build with gopher wood the Ark that saves? Do I enter Christ? Doth He enter me?” The cedars clung dark, they darkened the day yet more. Montjoy looked into a cell at Westforest and saw there Richard Englefield. Surely he is mad, though he lies so still, with his face buried in his arms! _Brother Richard._ Montjoy looked into the prison under the castle hill and saw Morgen Fay. _Not for five years have I touched her, O Christ!_ The prison closed. The sky hung so still and hung so heavy! Lightning and thunder would be welcome, rising wind and splash of rain. Friday would be welcome. The bramble burned, the hindering, evil bramble, harmful to the sheep, vexful to the shepherd--“O Christ, is there hardness? But the field must be cleared of bramble. Aye, it is worse than bramble. Mandrake and hemlock and helebore, and the children are endangered!” Montjoy saw Holy Well and the great picture, and that fine, fine reliquary of pure gold that rejoicing--Satan afar and all the mind in health--Brother Richard had wrought for the Rose, Montjoy bringing the gold. Yesterday Montjoy had gone to Silver Cross and to Holy Well. There had been pilgrims a hundred, and they kneeled, praying and singing. The day was fair as this was foul, and had bubbled and laughed that crystal well, sunlight into sunlight! They had cups of silver and of horn and of tree and of clay, and one by one they drank while the singing rose around. He, Montjoy, had seen a cripple fling away his crutch and stand and run, and a palsied man grow firm. “Who healeth them? Thou, thou, who truly didst appear to Brother Richard!” Even now, in this oppressive day, under this dull sky, Montjoy felt again that exaltation. He looked around him and up to the lowering heaven. “Little, weak castle--murky roof of ignorance--yet is there clear power!” The rain began to fall.