Denise was trembling from head to foot. Aymery had touched her hand, no more than that, yet nothing but a thin film of darkness seemed to hold the two apart. Denise heard the outpouring of his words, a man’s words, poignant and tender, striking her very heart. What could she say to him, with this renunciation of hers so near. “Denise, why have you left us?” She covered her face with her arms. “Lord, lord, was it not you who told me to seek a surer refuge?” His hands were straining back, and straining forward, as though to touch her, and not to touch. “Yes, but that was a while ago. Things happen in this world, when a man is tied to his bed. If all has been well with you——” She let her arms fall from before her face, and there, above them, the dark hillside was seamed with a stream of light. And in the flare of the torches she could see many shadowy figures moving, and the outline of a great cross carried in the van. Aymery had seemed blind to all save the white figure before him. But the torch flare struck across his face, and he seemed suddenly to understand. Then Denise spoke, as though compelling herself. “They are coming for me,” she said. “To-night, I offer myself at the high altar. They must not find you here.” He did not answer her for the moment, but stood looking at the torches, almost stupidly, like a man stunned. Then he bowed his head before her, spoke her name, and went out into the night. Aymery remembered all that followed as a man remembers few things in the course of his life. He hid his horse in a thicket, and followed on foot when the cross and the torches turned back towards the abbey. The abbey town seemed full of strange curious faces, of shadowy figures that jostled him, of the light of torches, of folk whispering together. There were many people moving under the gate, and on towards the abbey church. Aymery moved with them, silently, dully, like one carried along in the midst of a stream. They flowed in at the doors, these people, and on between pillars that towered up into darkness, and along aisles that were shadowy and dim. The high altar alone was lit with many waxen candles. The Brethren were in their stalls, the sound of chanting came from somewhere out of the dusk. Then began in that great church the last episode of Dom Silvius’s pageant. Aymery, leaning against a pillar in the darkness, saw Denise kneeling before the altar, Reginald of Brecon near her, and two of the most aged of the monks. A bell rang; a strong and strident voice spoke some prayer; then the chanting soared and rolled into the far vaultings of the roof. Heads were bowed everywhere; the monks in the choir had their faces hidden. But Aymery’s eyes were turned towards the altar where the candles flickered and the smoke of incense seemed to curl and ascend.