In the night-time, waking, he found horror with him, something cold, something forlorn and suspicious. It deepened. He left his great bed and Montjoy’s wife sleeping, put thick gown around him and went noiseless into the oratory opening from the great chamber, cold in the beams of a moon growing old. No peace! At the turn of the night, when afar he heard cock crow and his dogs bark, he determined that he would go that morning to confession to Father Edmund at Saint Ethelred’s. That was the sternest, the most dedicated, the most single of eye and will! To him he would confess everything that he would if he could save from her death the harlot and witch. Morning came and all the castle took up busy and talkative life. Montjoy rode to Saint Ethelred’s. Father Edmund? Oh, aye! he would hear him, and Father Edmund thought. “Time that lords give over slothful and unwise confessors! Father Ambrosius hath forever done him hurt.” Montjoy was long upon his knees. He accepted heavy penance, took shrift humbly, came forth from Saint Ethelred’s with a colourless face like a gem. Riding back to the castle, when he came to prison street he turned his black horse and rode slowly by the dark prison. He had told Father Edmund all his thoughts and in the bale was the thought, “I will visit her there in that dungeon before Friday. Is not that Christian, O God, if my deepest heart that is now thine seems to bid me to go?” But Father Edmund had been greatly stern. “Satan wrestleth for thy deepest heart! Hear me now! It is forbidden! Go not to, speak not to that All-Evil! If thou dost she will draw thee with her into hell! Thou thinkest, ‘Once I was familiarly with her’, and cowardice and heartlessness now only to think and never to say, ‘God have mercy upon thee, poor soul!’ Son, son, that is devil’s bait! He will come and stand and ask thee, ‘Is it knightly?’ It is his wile, to clothe himself in light! As for the witch, she lacks not soul counsel! Since she was taken, each day have I preached to her. I will hold the cross before her chained to stake. She shall see it, lifted high, till flame takes eyes. But thou, my son, I lay it upon thee, leaving here, to ride by the prison, and to say as thou ridest. ‘Sin, I will no longer sin with thee, nor come into thy company!’ Say it!” “Sin, I will no longer sin with thee, nor come into thy company.” “So! And son, thou wilt come with thy squires and thy men on Friday to town cross.” So Montjoy rode by the prison. It was dark in there, fetid and dark, and Morgen Fay the sinner had little to think of but her sins. She could not blink them that they were many.