“I know well if I can get my way,” answered Christopher, with a merry laugh. “Say now, Father, if it should so be that this lady were willing, could you marry us?” “Without a doubt, my son, with the consent of the parents;” and again he looked at him. “And if there were no parents?” “Then with the consent of the guardian, the bride being under age.” “And if no guardian had been declared or admitted?” “Then such a marriage duly solemnized, being a sacrament of the Church, would hold fast until the crack of doom unless the Pope annulled it, and, as you know, the Pope is out of favour in this realm on this very matter of marriage. Let me explain the law to you, ecclesiastic and civil----” But Christopher was already running towards the gate, so the old parson’s lecture remained undelivered. The two met in the snow, Emlyn Stower riding on ahead and leaving them together. “What is it, sweetest?” he asked. “What is it?” “Oh! Christopher,” she answered, weeping, “my poor father is dead--murdered, or so says Emlyn.” “Murdered! By whom?” “By the Abbot of Blossholme’s soldiers--so says Emlyn, yonder in the forest last eve. And the Abbot is coming to Shefton to declare me his ward and thrust me into the Nunnery--that was Emlyn’s tale. And so, although it is a strange thing to do, having none to protect me, I have fled to you--because Emlyn said I ought.” “She is a wise woman, Emlyn,” broke in Christopher; “I always thought well of her judgment. But did you only come to me because Emlyn told you?” “Not altogether, Christopher. I came because I am distraught, and you are a better friend than none at all, and--where else should I go? Also my poor father with his last words to me, although he was so angry with you, bade me seek your help if there were need--and--oh! Christopher, I came because you swore you loved me, and, therefore, it seemed right. If I had gone to the Nunnery, although the Prioress, Mother Matilda, is good, and my friend, who knows, she might not have let me out again, for the Abbot is her master, and _not_ my friend. It is our lands he loves, and the famous jewels--Emlyn has them with her.” By now they were across the moat and at the steps of the house, so, without answering, Christopher lifted her tenderly from the saddle, pressing her to his breast as he did so, for that seemed his best answer. A groom came to lead away the horses, touching his bonnet, and staring at them curiously; and, leaning on her lover’s shoulder, Cicely passed through the arched doorway of Cranwell Towers into the hall, where a great fire burned. Before this fire, warming his thin hands, stood Father Necton, engaged in eager conversation with Emlyn Stower. As the pair advanced this talk ceased, evidently because it was of them. “Mistress Cicely,” said the kindly-faced old man, speaking in a nervous fashion, “I fear that you visit us in sad case,” and he paused, not knowing what to add.