She must lie without her jewels; her pearls and coronet, and rings, her stomacher and necklets of bright gems, that were worth so much more than those beggarly acres--those that once a Sultan's woman wore.

They are lost, though perhaps yonder Abbot has found them.

Sir John Foterell bore them to London for safe keeping, and good Sir John is dead; footpads set on him in the forest, and an arrow shot from behind pierced his throat.

Those who killed him have the jewels, and the dead bride must lie without them, adorned in the naked beauty that God gave to her.

Lift her, John Athey, and you monks, set up your funeral chant; we'll to the church.
The bride who knelt before the altar shall lie there before the altar--Clement Maldonado's last offering to God.