Montjoy pressed back of clasped hands over eyes. “The world is thistle and precipice! I have fearful dreams at night. Welcome will it be to me, oh Christ, when I may go my pilgrimage!” Rising from his chair he walked to and fro, then returning to the table, laid touch upon a great and splendidly bound book, fine work upon fine parchment, illuminated head letters and borders. He touched it reverently. “See you, so beautifully done, two hundred years ago! Chronicle of Silver Cross. I have been reading as I have read a hundred times! Miracles then a-plenty, and such goodness, such spiritual men, that all seemed grown pure Nature! I thought the gloss and freshness were all back, but I do not know--I do not know--I do not know!” Prior Matthew said quietly, “Until this madness Brother Richard was a good and holy monk. How else should Heaven have found him as glass to shine through? And now if, as we think, he lies drowned in Wander, it does not seem to us self-murder. The mad are not accountable there. Again, he may have slipped and fallen. So now Our Lord may clear his mind, and his purgatory done, he will again be wise and holy.” “Purgatory lasteth long!” said Montjoy. “Thistle and mire pit, thirsty desert, precipices! And what if he did not drown but roams at large, telling with flaming eyes and tolling voice and large gesture his story of not one but many Satans?” “The whole region knows that he is mad. Were he so abroad, how long before we should have known it? Oh, we have questioners and seekers out, but quietly! Hour by hour Wander grows to us the more certain. Yesterday we dragged, but the water runs swiftly and may have carried him down.” “Death. Well, who should tremble at that unless he be sold to wickedness?” Through open windows they heard compline bell. “To-morrow draws on. There will be a great concourse. Saint Leofric and Silver Cross and Westforest, country folk and all the town, seamen and pilgrims. And what to see? A woman burning.” The Prior spoke serenely, invisibly his hand making final move, providing mate. “Nay, Montjoy, Good vindicated, Ill consumed, Warning spread!” Thomas Bettany absented himself from Middle Forest. Dark night, clear and dark. Lights twinkled in tall houses, lantern and torch twinkled and flared in narrow streets. Glowworm points from those belated moved over the bridge. Night deepened. Lights went out one by one, cluster by cluster. Now there were great spaces of naught between twinklers and flarers. Dark space widened, twinklers and flarers growing lonely, separated afar from one another. Ships below the bridge had lanterns, but the ships were few. Lights lessened, lessened, until you might say Middle Forest was in darkness. Lanterns of the watch went slowly about, but wary eye might know where watch had been and where it was now and where it would presently be. Cautious foot might tread among the three. Of course, if shout were raised, watch hearing it would come running. Midnight and after.