At the end of the open place a heavy, nail-studded door stood wide, revealing a cell, or rather a little cave beyond--those who are curious can see it to this day. Fastened by a chain to the wall of this dungeon was a man, who held in his hand a three-legged stool and tugged at his chain like a maddened beast. In front of him, holding the doorway, stood a tall, lank priest, his robe tucked up into his girdle. He was wounded, for blood poured from his shaven crown and he plied a great sword with both hands, striking savagely at four men who tried to cut him down. As Bolle and his party appeared, one of these men fell beneath the priest’s blows, and another took his place, shouting-- “Out of the way, traitor. We would kill Harflete, not you.” “We die or live together, murderers,” answered the priest in a thick, gasping voice. At this moment one of them, it was he who had spoken, heard the sound of the rescuers’ footsteps and glanced back. In an instant he turned and was running past them like a hare. As he went the light from the lantern fell upon his face, and Emlyn knew it for that of the Abbot. She struck at him with the sword she held, but the steel glanced from his mail. He also struck, but at the lantern, dashing it to the ground. “Seize him,” screamed Emlyn. “Seize Maldon, Jeffrey,” and at the words Stokes bounded away, only to return presently, having lost him in the dark passages. Then with a roar Bolle leaped upon the two remaining men-at-arms as they faced about, and very soon between his axe and the sword of the priest behind, they sank to the ground and died still fighting, who knew they had no hope of quarter. It was over and done and dreadful silence fell upon the place, the silence of the dead broken only by the heavy breathing of those who remained alive. There the wounded monk leaned against the door-post, his red sword drooping to the floor. There Harflete, the stool still lifted, rested his weight against the chain and peered forward in amazement, swaying as though from weakness. And lastly there lay the three slain men, one of whom still moved a little. Cicely crept forward; over the dead she went and past the priest till she stood face to face with the prisoner. “Come nearer and I will dash out your brains,” he said in a hoarse voice, for such light as there was came from behind her whom he thought to be but another of the murderers. Then at length she found her voice. “Christopher!” she cried, “Christopher!” He hearkened, and the stool fell from his hand. “The Voice again,” he muttered. “Well, ‘tis time. Tarry a while, Wife, I come, I come!” and he fell back against the wall shutting his eyes. She leapt to him, and throwing her arms about him kissed his lips, his poor, bloodless lips. The shut eyes opened. “Death might be worse,” he said, “but so I knew that we would meet.”