“Swear thus,” he said, Emlyn, who was crouched beneath the parapet, prompting him from time to time; “I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, in the presence of Almighty God in heaven, and of Christopher Harflete and others upon earth,” and he jerked his head backwards towards the windows of the house, where all therein were gathered, listening, “make oath upon the symbol of the Rood. I swear that I abandon all claim of wardship over the body of Cicely Harflete, born Cicely Foterell, the lawful wife of Christopher Harflete, and all claim to the lands and goods that she may possess, or that were possessed by her father, John Foterell, Knight, or by her mother, Dame Foterell, deceased. I swear that I will raise no suit in any court, spiritual or temporal, of this or other realms against the said Cicely Harflete or against the said Christopher Harflete, her husband, nor seek to work injury to their bodies or their souls, or to the bodies or the souls of any who cling to them, and that henceforth they may live and die in peace from me or any whom I control. Set your lips to the Rood and swear thus now, Clement Maldon.” The Abbot hearkened, and so great was his rage, for he had no meek heart, that he seemed to swell like an angry toad. “Who gave you authority to administer oaths to me?” he asked at length. “I’ll not swear,” and he cast the crucifix down upon the snow. “Then I’ll shoot,” answered Christopher. “Come, pick up that cross.” But Maldon stood silent, his arms folded on his breast. Christopher aimed and loosed, and so great was his skill--for there were few archers in England like to him--that the arrow pierced Maldon’s fur cap and carried it away without touching the shaven head beneath. “The next shall be two inches lower,” he said, as he set another on the string. “I waste no more good shafts.” Then, very slowly, to save his life, which he loved well enough, Maldon bent down, and, lifting the crucifix from the snow, held it to his lips and kissed it, muttering-- “I swear.” But the oath he swore was very different to that which Christopher had repeated to him, for, like a hunted fox, he knew how to meet guile with guile. “Now that I, a consecrated abbot, deeming it right that I should live on to fulfil my work on earth, have done your bidding, have I leave to go about my business, Christopher Harflete?” he asked, with bitter irony. “Why not?” asked Christopher. “Only be pleased henceforth not to meddle with me and my business. To-morrow I wish to ride to London with my lady, and we do not seek your company on the road.” Then, having found his cap, the Abbot turned and walked back towards his own men, drawing the arrow from it as he went, and presently all of them rode away over the rise towards Blossholme. “Now that is well finished, and I have an oath that he will scarcely dare to break,” said Christopher presently. “What say you, Nurse?”