The door of the cell stood open, and before it, in the middle of a space of trampled snow, two of the Abbey servants were heaping up straw and faggots as though for a fire. The trampling of Aymery’s horse had been deadened by the snow, the men had not heard it, and he stood at the gate, watching them and wondering what this meant. The two men went to and fro into Denise’s cell, carrying out the wooden bed, the straw, and the sheets thereof, her prayer stool, and cross, and other lesser things, for Silvius in his first ardour had seen her better housed than a mere recluse. The men piled everything upon the faggots, and then stood aside in silence as though waiting for someone’s coming. Aymery tarried no longer, but marched out from the shadow of the thorn hedge, a voice crying in him: “Can it be that she is dead?” The two servants saw him, and for some strange reason began to handle their staves, while one of them went to the door of the cell, and spoke to someone within. Dom Silvius and Aymery came face to face outside Denise’s cell that morning, for the monk had been within, watching the unclean things carried out for the burning. He came out with a lighted torch in his hand, ready with canonical curses, hot and hungry for the chance of scolding the whole world. But when Silvius saw Aymery, he seemed to grow cold of a sudden, and thin with a malicious carefulness. For Silvius saw the hauberk and the gilt spurs, the long sword at the girdle, the shield slung across the back, the shoulder plates painted with a knight’s device, the golden claw of a hawk. And Silvius sprang to sinister conclusions with the intuition of a woman. Here, no doubt, was the woman’s paramour, some hot-headed gentleman who had ridden in to discover how things fared with Denise. Silvius took no notice of the Knight of the Hawk’s Claw, but plunged his torch into the straw, and watched the flames spring up and seize the wood. The smoke rose straight up into the still air, turning to a pearly haze as the sunlight touched it. The monk stood there, with bowed head and folded arms, as though too busy with his own prayers to be troubled by any stranger. But prayer was very far from Silvius’s soul. His eyes were wide awake under their lowered lids. Aymery came two steps nearer. Silvius raised his head and looked at him, and saw at a glance the face of a man who was not to be repulsed or fooled. “Whom may you be seeking, my son?” he asked, watching Aymery out of the corners of his eyes. The Knight of the Hawk’s Claw turned his head towards the cell. Silvius seemed to enjoy an inaudible chuckle. “Perhaps you have come for a blessing, messire?” As yet Aymery had not spoken a word, but Silvius read his thoughts by the puzzled frown and the alert eyes. “Ah, my son,” he went on, beginning to sneer, “you are wondering what has become of our saint.” Aymery looked from Silvius to the flames that were leaping through the wood. “Has death been here?”