"What is it ?" "Oh! Christopher," she answered, weeping, "my poor father is dead--murdered, or so says Emlyn." "Murdered! By whom ?" "By the Abbot of Blossholme's soldiers--so says Emlyn, yonder in the forest last eve.

And the Abbot is coming to Shefton to declare me his ward and thrust me into the Nunnery--that was Emlyn's tale.

And so, although it is a strange thing to do, having none to protect me, I have fled to you--because Emlyn said I ought." "She is a wise woman, Emlyn," broke in Christopher; "I always thought well of her judgment.

But did you only come to me because Emlyn told you ?" "Not altogether, Christopher.

I came because I am distraught, and you are a better friend than none at all, and--where else should I go?
Also my poor father with his last words to me, although he was so angry with you, bade me seek your help if there were need--and--oh! Christopher, I came because you swore you loved me, and, therefore, it seemed right.
If I had gone to the Nunnery, although the Prioress, Mother Matilda, is good, and my friend, who knows, she might not have let me out again, for the Abbot is her master, and _not_ my friend.