Hidden themselves, they looked through the window. Other side the street, in the falling snow, stood Friar Martin, intent upon the goldsmith’s house and sign. A man going by was stopped and questioned. Alone once more, the friar gazed, dubitated, drew his picture. Diccon? A Richard made silver dishes for Abbot Mark. June. He came into this house in June, and none in these parts had known him before. And an Alice Dawn like as a twin to Morgen Fay! The friar made a movement. “_If this be so, what gain to Saint Leofric?_” But first it was to tell beyond peradventure of a doubt if it were so! He crossed the smith’s street and with his staff knocked upon the door of Diccon Dawn. “Shalt open to him?” “If I do he may find likeness. If I do not--” They stood in the dusky place, a long room with the red fire eye of the small furnace dully winking, with the snow falling, falling. The friar knocked again. “If we do not answer, then surely will he say, ‘Witch’s house!’” Englefield moved toward the door, but Friar Martin, impatient and bold, did not wait, but lifting the latch, pushed inward. It was dusk, beyond seeing clearly. “Are you the smith?” “Aye, Brother. Can I serve you?” “I would see your work. But I cannot do so without light.” “Work hour and shop hour are over. Best come to-morrow.” “To-morrow we may all be dead. Canst not light candle?” “Aye, I can.” He took a brand from the fire and suited action to word. “There is not much here.” He held the candle to the silver shell, but Friar Martin, who helped himself through life, shot out his hand and took the taper and held it to the smith. Diccon Dawn stood in the light and formed face of London smith who knew that in these later days friars upon their travels were what they were and must be taken so. They had their whims! But Friar Martin said, “Did ever you wander by a stream called Wander? Do you know a town named Middle Forest, and the Abbey of Silver Cross?” Diccon Dawn shook his head. “I stick to my work, Brother. It’s night and snowing fast!” Light--light! It seemed to blaze around. “Didst never make silver dishes for abbots?” “No. I have a humbler trade. It nears curfew, Brother!” “I met a woman upon your doorstep. Your wife or perhaps your sister?” “My sister,--Curfew, Brother!” The other was thinking, “I do not yet know wholly, but I guess, I guess!” He said aloud, “Do smiths have visions? Doth heaven ever open in this street?” “All streets are ways to that. Curfew, Brother!” It was dusk save for the one taper and the fire eye in the back of the room. The friar was almost a giant, but the smith, too, was a strong man, and somewhere in the house dwelled a witch! He had matter enough to turn and twist this way and that, during the night, preparing the vial of wrath. “Aye, it is late! I will go, having seen your silver work!”