“Do you remember, Thomas, how first we told our young love that spring day down in the copse by the water, and how sweet the daffodils bloomed about our feet--the daffodils and the wood-lilies? Do you remember how we swore ourselves each to each for all our lives, aye, and all the lives that were to come, and how for us two the earth was turned to heaven? And then--do you remember how that monk walked by--it was this Clement Maldon--and froze us with his cruel eyes, and said, ‘What do you with the witch’s daughter? She is not for you.’ And--oh! Thomas, I can no more of it,” and she broke down and sobbed, then added, “Swear nothing; get you gone and betray me, if you will. I’ll bear you no malice, even when I die for it, for after more than twenty years of monkcraft, how could I hope that you would still remain a man? Come, get you gone swiftly, ere they take us together, and your fair fame is besmirched. Quick, now, and leave me and my lady and her unborn child to the doom Maldon brews for us. Alas! for the copse by the river; alas! for the withered lilies!” Thomas heard; the big blue veins stood out upon his forehead, his great breast heaved, his utterance choked. At length the words came in a thick torrent. “I’ll not go, dearie; I’ll swear what you will, by your eyes and by your lips, by the flowers on which we trod, by all the empty years of aching woe and shame, by God upon His throne in heaven, and by the devil in his fires in hell. Come, come,” and he ran to the altar and clasped the crucifix that stood there. “Say the words again, or any others that you will, and I’ll repeat them and take the oath, and may fiery worms eat me living for ever and ever if I break a letter of it.” With a little smile of triumph in her dark eyes Emlyn bent over the kneeling man and whispered--whispered through the gathering bloom, while he whispered after her, and kissed the Rood in token. It was done, and they drew away from the altar back to the painted saint. “So you are a man after all,” she said, laughing aloud. “Now, man--my man--who, if we live through this, shall be my husband if you will--yes, my husband, for I’ll pay, and be proud of it--listen to my commands. See you, I am Moses, and yonder in the Abbey sits Pharaoh with a hardened heart, and you are the angel--the destroying angel with the sword of the plagues of Egypt. To-night there will be fire in the Abbey--such fire as fell on Cranwell Towers. Nay, nay, I know; the church will not burn, nor all the great stone halls. But the dormitories, and the storehouses, and the hayricks, and the cattle-byres, they’ll flame bravely after this time of drought, and if the wains are ashes, how will they draw in their harvest? Will you do it, my man?” “Surely. Have I not sworn?”