CHAPTER VI.
EMLYN'S CURSE Just before the wild dawn broke on the morrow of the burning of the Towers, a corpse, roughly shrouded, was borne from the village into the churchyard of Cranwell, where a shallow grave had been dug for its last home.
"Whom do we bury in such haste ?" asked the tall Thomas Bolle, who had delved the grave alone in the dark, for his orders were urgent, and the sexton was fled away from these tumults.
"That man of blood, Sir Christopher Harflete, who has caused us so much loss," said the old monk who had been bidden to perform the office, as the clergyman, Father Necton, had gone also, fearing the vengeance of the Abbot for his part in the marriage of Cicely.

"A sad story, a very sad story.

Wedded by night, and now buried by night, both of them, one in the flame and one in the earth.

Truly, O God, Thy judgments are wonderful, and woe to those who lift hands against Thine anointed ministers!" "Very wonderful," answered Bolle, as, standing in the grave, he took the head of the body and laid it down between his straddled feet; "so wonderful that a plain man wonders what will be the wondrous end of them, also why this noble young knight has grown so wondrously lighter than he used to be.

Trouble and hunger in those burnt Towers, I suppose.
Why did they not set him in the vault with his ancestors?
It would have saved me a lonely job among the ghosts that haunt this place.