The Abbot smiled, then, lifting his hand, pronounced some words in Latin, which, as he did not understand them, Goody found very comforting. As they passed his lips the _Great Yarmouth_ began to move, for the sailors were hoisting up her anchor. “As I do not accompany you on this voyage, fare you well,” he said. “The saints go with you, as shall my prayers. Since you will not pass the Gibraltar Straits, where I hear many infidel pirates lurk, given good weather your voyage should be safe and easy. Again farewell. I commend Brother Martin and our sick friend to your keeping, and shall ask account of them when we meet again.” I pray it may not be this side of hell, for I do not like that Spanish Abbot and his passengers, dead or living, thought Goody to himself, as he bowed him from the cabin. A minute later the Abbot, after a few earnest, hurried words with Martin, began to descend the ladder to the boat, that, manned by his own people, was already being drawn slowly through the water. As he did so he glanced back, and, in the clinging mist of dawn, which was almost as dense as wool, caught sight of the face of a man who had been ordered to hold the ladder, and knew it for that of Jeffrey Stokes, who had escaped from the slaying of Sir John--escaped with the damning papers that had cost his master’s life. Yes, Jeffrey Stokes, no other. His lips shaped themselves to call out something, but before ever a syllable had passed them an accident happened. To the Abbot it seemed as though the whole ship had struck him violently behind--so violently that he was propelled headfirst among the rowers in the boat, and lay there hurt and breathless. “What is it?” called the captain, who heard the noise. “The Abbot slipped, or the ladder slipped, I know not which,” answered Jeffrey gruffly, staring at the toe of his sea-boot. “At least he is safe enough in the boat now,” and, turning, he vanished aft into the mist, muttering to himself-- “A very good kick, though a little high. Yet I wish it had been off another kind of ladder. That murdering rogue would look well with a rope round his neck. Still I dared do no more and it served to stop his lying mouth before he betrayed me. Oh, my poor master, my poor old master!”