This was a day of gold dust, still, warm, a haze and floating stillness. Ruined farm and forest hereabouts might have had a hedge around them like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. No ears heard fine smithwork, for Philemon and Baucis were deaf, and went beside to planted field. The fairies might have heard. Mid-afternoon Thomas Bettany returned to town. Near the old wall, now on the high road, he overtook a string of pilgrims footweary and dusty. The leader hailed him, handsome young burgher riding a fine horse. “Canst tell us, master, what inn is best for us?” “Try the Joyful Mountain. Whence do you come?” From Minchester, it seemed. To Saint Leofric and Silver Cross. “And we’ve just heard news about a fearful witch and that she’ll be burned to-morrow. We shall see that first. Thank ye, and our blessing, master!” Thomas Bettany gave to his family the supper hour and showed himself during it affectionate son and brother. “Eh, Thomas!” thought the old merchant, and like the pilgrims he, too, gave him blessing, though an inner one. Marian, his sister, who was a mouse for quietness, said suddenly, “Oh, I would that to-morrow were gone by! If I were Morgen Fay to-night--” Master Eustace Bettany rated her. “Say naught like that even in jest!” “I was not jesting.” “Thou’rt so far from Morgen Fay that thou shalt not say, ‘If I were Morgen Fay--’” “She is woman.” “Witches have left womanhood. Be silent!” Table was taken away. Eustace Bettany disappeared through the door which led to countinghouse. Marian came to Thomas in the deep window. “Stay awhile, Thomas, and read with me ‘Romaunt of the Rose!’ Cousin hath sent us, too, ‘The Grey Damsel and Sir Launfal.’” But Thomas could not stay. He kissed her and went forth into the sunset. By town cross they were piling wood. Saint Ethelred’s bells rang. The young man stood and prayed. Dusk came over all like brooding wings. Stars brightened above the castle. Up there Montjoy, seated in his great chair, listened to Prior Matthew of Westforest. “Not to hear of it till now--!” “It is not yet three nights ago, Montjoy. And it seemed, and still seemeth best to seek quietly. We have had, to my mind, too much indeed of buzz and clatter! I wish for quiet to descend upon us.” “Ah, I also!” sighed Montjoy. “So the soul may return to her proper work! But open--all things should be open!” “In reason, aye! But the world is idle and will make scandal if it may.”