Forest silence filled with tongues. Bettany untied his horse and strapped the empty leathern case before the saddle. He looked at the discarded habit of monk of Silver Cross. “Put it in the hollow tree?” “No. In the deep sea to-morrow night.” “Better in river. Then if ’tis found, as like enough it may be, surely--all say--you were drowned!” He stood, bridle in hand. “Morgen Fay. She had a house by the river and a fair, small garden. Aye! she was harlot, but then what were Montjoy and Somerville and others? It is a speckled earth. There is other sale than that? Aye, she made it, and bought blackness and flame and peril maybe for ever and ever. Because she was harlot and Father Edmund preached mightily just then against her, they broke her house and garden and stoned her forth from town. Then one that I know who is speckled, too, hid her for a time. Then, as fate or somewhat would have it, came to Prior Matthew knowledge that she had to certain eyes much of outward face and form of the great picture, so that he who painted might have set her before him for first model. That knowledge and that she was still in Wander vale. So all followed. She thought she was buying ransom--safety if not honey. Once I saw played at the Great Fair _Faustus and the Devil_. Faustus thought he would buy happiness, and here was to-day and perhaps would never come to-morrow and death! So she thought. Safety and perhaps house and garden once more, and maybe to-day will last! But _thy soul is required of thee_,--and she is in prison waiting.” He mounted horse. “I will come ere sunset to-morrow. When you hear _Otterbourne_ whistled, it is I.” “Should something happen,” said Englefield, “and all this go awry, still have you done for me what if I had younger brother or dear comrade or old fellow-worker with me in my craft, I might have hoped for--” “I don’t know why I do it, but I must do it. For a time I thought of you five times a day as most blessed. You were heaven’s courtier, you were sailing on heaven’s ship! Now you are man like me, though older than me, and I see you need a friend. You thought you had so great a one--and then there was blackness! I’m nothing but Thomas Bettany, but I’ll set you at least on the _Vineyard_. Let’s say no more!” The merchant rode away. The master goldsmith was left by the ruined farm in Wander forest. He saw the red orb of the sun descend past boles of trees. It sank beneath the earth. All the west hung fire red, then the colour faded. “I will go now to sleep, and God knoweth I need it! When I come to London, or rather, I think, to France--” Down he lay. Bettany’s cloak was thick, the leaves and moss a pleasant bed, soft dusk around, the forest a cradle with cradle song. “Sleep--sleep! Sleep--sleep!” But sleep was at the antipodes. “This place--what is this place?” “Bitter Shame, Very Anger, strengthen me! Let me not pity the witch! Let me not feel her misery mine! Let me not long to see her face, touch her, hold her!”