“Then away to the work, and afterwards--to-morrow or next day--come back and make report. Just now I am much moved to solitary prayer, so wait till you see me here alone upon my knees. Stay! Wrap yourself in grave-clothes, for then if you are seen they will think you are a ghost, such as they say haunt this place. Fear not, by then I will have more work for you. Have you mastered it?” He nodded his head. “All. All, especially your promise. Oh! I’ll not die now; I’ll live to claim it.” “Good. There’s on account,” and again she kissed him. “Go.” He reeled in the intoxication of his joy; then said-- “One word; my head swims; I forgot. Sir Christopher is not dead, or wasn’t----” “What do you mean?” she almost hissed at him. “In Christ’s name be quick; I hear voices without.” “They buried another man for Christopher. I scraped him up and saw. Christopher was sent foreign, sore wounded, on the ship--pest! I have forgotten its name--the same ship that took Jeffrey Stokes.” “Blessings on your head for that tidings,” exclaimed Emlyn, in a strange, low voice. “Away; they are coming to the door!” The wooden figure creaked to and stared at her blandly, as it had stared for generations. For a moment Emlyn stood still, her hand upon her heart. Then she walked swiftly down the chapel, unlocked the door, and in the porch, just entering it, met the Prioress Matilda, another nun, and old Bridget, who was chattering. “Oh! it is you, Mistress Stower,” said Mother Matilda, with evident relief. “Sister Bridget here swore that she heard a man talking in the chapel when she came to shut the outer window at sunset.” “Did she?” answered Emlyn indifferently. “Then her luck’s better than my own, who long for the sound of a man’s voice in this home of babbling women. Nay, be not shocked, good Mother; I am no nun, and God did not create the world all female, or we should none of us be here. But, now you speak of it, I think there’s something strange about that chapel. It is a place where some might fear to be alone, for twice when I knelt there at my prayers I have heard odd sounds, and once, when there was no sun, a cold shadow fell upon me. Some ghost of the dead, I suppose, of whom so many lie about. Well, ghosts I never feared; and now I must away to fetch my lady’s supper, for she eats in her room to-night.” When she had gone the Prioress shook her head and remarked in her gentle fashion-- “A strange woman and a rough, but, my sisters, we must not judge her harshly, for she is of a different world to ours, and I fear has met with sorrows there, such as we are protected from by our holy office.” “Yes,” answered the sister, “but I think also that she has met with the ghost that haunts the chapel, of which there are many records, and that once I saw myself when I was a novice. The Prioress Matilda--I mean the fourth of that name, she who was mixed up with Edward the Lame, the monk, and died suddenly after the----”