But if left alone in this cold place he will be dead by morning, and perhaps he is better dead," and he looked at Martin.
"That would be murder indeed," answered the secretary.

"Come, let us bear him to the fire and pour milk down his throat.

We may save him yet.
Lift you his feet and I will take his head." The Abbot did so, not very willingly, as it seemed to Martin, but rather as one who has no choice.
Half-an-hour later, when the hurts of Christopher had been dressed with ointment and bound up, and milk poured down his throat, which he swallowed although he was so senseless, the Abbot, looking at him, said to Martin-- "You gave orders for this Harflete's burial, did you not ?" The monk nodded.
"Then have you told any that he needs no grave at present ?" "No one except yourself." The Abbot thought a while, rubbing his shaven chin.
"I think the funeral should go forward," he said presently.

"Look not so frightened; I do not purpose to inter him living.

But there is a dead man lying in that shed, Andrew Woods, my servant, the Scotch soldier whom Harflete slew.