And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a long conference. He departed, concealing a small phial in his pouch. She dug a hole in the earth, after he was gone, and buried something he had left behind. The reader must imagine the rest. It was again the Sunday morn, and Martin preached for the last time before Lady Sybil at Walderne Castle, and spent the day there. And in the evening the lady summoned him to another private conference. She told him she felt it very much on her mind to have all things in order, in case of sudden death, such as had befallen her dear lord, Sir Nicholas: and therefore had arranged to go on the morrow to Lewes, to see Earl Warrenne of Lewes Castle, with whom she would take advice how to secure Walderne Castle and its estates for Hubert in the event of his return. She would also see the old Father Roger at the priory, and together they would shape out some plan. At length the old dame said: “Martin, my beloved nephew, wilt thou fetch my sleeping potion from the hall? I shall take it more willingly from thine hands. The butler places it nightly on the sideboard.” Let us precede Martin by only one minute. Ah! What is that shadow on the stairs? The likeness of one that pours the contents of a small phial into a goblet. A light is behind him and casts the shadow—The thing vanishes as Martin turns the corner. The sleeping potion was there, as left by the majordomo for his mistress, ere he retired early to rest, to be up with the lark. Martin himself gave it to his aunt. She drank it slowly, observed that it had an unusual taste, but not an unpleasant one. “Martin,” she said, “hast told my sister, thy mother, all that I have said?” “I have repeated your kind words.” “And that her home is open for her, should she ever wish to return hither? which may God grant.” “I have.” “And I will take care that a clause in her favour is put into my will, which within the week will be witnessed by Earl Warrenne.” Alas! man proposes but God disposes. On the following morning the Lady Sybil did not arise at the usual time, nor did she, as was her wont, appear at the morning mass in her chapel. At length, alarmed by the continued silence, her handmaids ventured to the bedside to arouse her. She lay as in a peaceful sleep, but stirred not as they approached. They became alarmed, touched her forehead; it was icy cold. Then their loud cries brought the household upstairs, Martin, Drogo, and all; and the truth forced itself upon them. She slept that sleep: Which men call death. Shall we describe the grief of the household? Nay, we forbear. All the retainers: all the neighbourhood, followed her to the tomb. Martin stood by the open grave; his head bowed in grief; he loved to comfort others, but felt much in need of a consoler himself. Blessed are they which die in the Lord, for they rest from their labours.