The house was now but a smoking heap of ashes, mingled with charred beams and burnt clay, in the midst of which, scarcely visible through the clouds of steam caused by the falling rain, rose the grim old Norman tower, for on its stonework the flames had beat vainly.
"Why have we come here ?" asked one of the monks, surveying the dismal scene with a shudder.
"To seek the bodies of the Lady Cicely and her woman, and give them Christian burial," answered the Abbot.
"After bringing them to a most unchristian death," muttered the monk to himself, then added aloud, "You were ever charitable, my Lord Abbot, and though she defied you, such is that noble lady's due.

As for the nurse Emlyn, she was a witch, and did but come to the end that she deserved, if she be really dead." "What mean you ?" asked the Abbot sharply.
"I mean that, being a witch, the fire may have turned from her." "Pray God, then, that it turned from her mistress also! But it cannot be.

Only a fiend could have lived in the heat of that furnace; look, even the tower is gutted." "No, it cannot be," answered the monk; "so, since we shall never find them, let us chant the Burial Office over this great grave of theirs and begone--the sooner the better, for yon place has a haunted look." "Not till we have searched out their bones, which must be beneath the tower yonder, whereon we saw them last," replied the Abbot, adding in a low voice, "Remember, Brother, the Lady Cicely had jewels of great price, which, if they were wrapped in leather, the fire may have spared, and these are among our heritage.

At Shefton they cannot be found; therefore they must be here, and the seeking of them is no task for common folk.

That is why I hurried hither so fast.