“Aye, Wife,” he answered, “it was here that we plighted our troth in youth, and looked up to see Maldon passing us just beyond that same oak, and felt the shadow of him strike cold to our hearts. You spoke of it yonder in the Priory chapel when I came up by the secret way, and its memory made me mad.” “Yes, Thomas, I spoke of it,” answered Emlyn in a rich and gentle voice, a new voice to him. “Well, now let its memory make you happy, as, notwithstanding all my faults, I will if I can,” and swiftly she bent towards him and kissed him, adding, “Come on, Husband, they press behind us and I hope that we have done with perils and plottings.” “Amen,” answered Bolle, and as he spoke certain strange men who wore the King’s colours and carried a long ladder went by them at a distance. Wondering what was their business at Blossholme, the pair passed through the last of the woodland and reached the rise whence they could see the gaunt skeleton of the burnt-out Abbey that appeared within fifty paces of them. At this they paused to look, and presently were joined there by Christopher and Cicely, Mother Matilda and her good nuns, Jeffrey Stokes, and others. The place seemed grim and desolate in the evening light, and all of them stood staring at it filled with their separate thoughts. “What is that?” said Cicely, with a start, pointing to a round black object new set over the ruin of the gateway tower. Just then a red ray from the sunset struck upon the thing. It was the severed head of Clement Maldon the Spaniard.