It was near midnight, yet, weary as he was, he could not rest; indeed, had the night been less foul and dark he would have spent the time in riding back to Blossholme.

His heart was ill at ease.

Things had gone well with him, it is true.

Sir John Foterell was dead--slain by "outlawed men;" Sir Christopher Harflete was dead--did not his body lie in the neat-house yonder?
Cicely, daughter of the one and wife to the other, was dead also, burned in the fire at the Towers, so that doubtless the precious gems and the wide lands he coveted would fall into his lap without further trouble.

For, Cromwell being bribed, who would try to snatch them from the powerful Abbot of Blossholme, and had he not a title to them--of a sort?
And yet he was very ill at ease, for, as that voice had said--whose voice was it?
he wondered, somehow it seemed familiar--the blood of these people lay on his head; and there came into his mind the text of Holy Writ which he had quoted to Christopher, that he who shed man's blood by man should his blood be shed.