Godfrey had good wine to-night, brought him by Master Thomas Bettany. Godfrey thought, “Brought for present to soften me to let him look at the witch!” He grinned and took the wine but kept to “Rule is rule!” “Very fine Jerez sack,” explained the young merchant, “out of a lot bought in London. And will you give a stoup to William and Diggory? Diggory is a great fellow of his inches! I saw him Sunday wrestling in long meadow.” Godfrey drank the Jerez wine with his supper, and he poured a great cup for William and for Diggory. They drank. “Aye, aye! Bettany knows how to choose the best!” Deep night. CHAPTER XXIII Deep night. Over the castle Pegasus, over town southward the Eagle, walking down the west the Ploughman, low in the southwest the Scorpion, due south the Archer, on the meridian the Lyre. Deep night in prison. Morgen Fay waked. “What use in sleeping? I shall do no work to-morrow.” Memory. For some ease, take Memory by the hand, but go with her into old countries, not into those near at hand! She remembered a forest like to Wander forest, and she remembered an ocean with shells upon the beach. So cool the air, and the water going over her, cool, cool and restful! She remembered music. Once a grey-beard begging friar had told her that all things that ever were or are or can be were but parts of music. “Listen, and you will hear! Gather the notes and make them into strains. Put the strains together--you will begin to have a notion! When you have lived long enough you will come to hear the strains made of strains and how they combine. All the jangle is imperfect music, music finding itself--” Music. So it was all music? A long way to-night to where you might see that! Dancing. Once it had come to her herself, watching sunbeams and some nodding, waving trees and a long ripple over wheat, and feeling a wind that kept measure, that dancing was somehow a great and sweet idea of some great Gayheart. “Shall I dance in prison and hear music, and to-morrow flying this way?” Love. What is that? She thought. “I have never seen it. I know it not. Perhaps for garden and Ailsa and little white rose tree. Ah, yes! But I have loved my way, and fire on my hearth and wine on my table. Now I will have enough of fire, and there is a wine they say of wrath. Love--love! What is it, Morgen Fay? If there be such a country I shall not see it. Where do you go to-morrow, Morgen Fay, and what anguish in the going?” “O God, O my God, make wider the little passage between me and thee!” So dark--so dark. Night and night and night! A little noise at the door, but not like Godfrey’s hand. She sat up, being near the door, the place was so small. Stealthily, stealthily, a sliding noise. She felt the door open and rose to her knees. “Who’s there?” “Friends! Don’t make any noise.” One came in at the door and touched her. “Morgen, it is Thomas Bettany. You are willing to follow me? Then come at once.”