I think that much sorrow draws near this land； ay， and others. I think that many vaults and many churchyards， too， will ere long be filled with dead； also that the tomb of the Claverings at Blythburgh will soon be opened. Mayhap the end of this world draws near to all men， as surely it draws near to you and me. I know not--yet truth was in your lips just now， and in mine as well， I think. Oh， man， man！" he went on after a pause， "appeal not unto the world's C鎠ar lest C鎠ar render different judgment to that which you desire. Get you home， and on your knees appeal unto God to forgive you your proud， vengeance-seeking heart. Sickness draws near to you； death draws near to you， and after death， hell--or heaven. I have finished."
As he heard these words Sir John's swarthy face grew pale and for a little while his rage died down. Then it flared up again.
"Don't dream to frighten me with your spells， old wizard，" he said.
"I'm a hale man yet， though I do lose my breath at times when my mind is vexed with wrongs， and I'll square my own account with God without your help or counsel. So you'll not give me my daughter？"
"Nay， here she bides in sanctuary for so long as it shall please her."
"Does she in truth？ Perhaps you married her to this merchant fellow ere he rode this morning."
"Nay， Sir John， they betrothed themselves before the altar and in presence of his kin， no more. Moreover， if you would know， because of your son's blood which runs between them I， after thought and prayer， speaking in the name of the Church， swore them to this penance--that for a year from yesterday they should not wed nor play the part of lovers."
"I thank you， priest， for this small grace，" answered Sir John， with a bitter laugh， "and in my turn I swear this， that after the year they shall not wed， since the one of them will be clay and the other the wife of the man whom I have chosen. Now， play no tricks on me， lest I burn this sanctuary of yours about your head and throw your old carcass to roast among the flames."
Sir Andrew made no reply， only， resting his long sword on the threshold， he leant upon its hilt， and fixed his clear grey eyes upon Clavering's face. What Sir John saw in those eyes he never told， but it was something which scared him. At least that shortening of the breath of which he had spoken seemed to take a hold of him， for he swayed upon his horse as though he were about to fall， then， recovering， turned and rode straight for Blythburgh.
It was the second night after that day when Sir Andrew had looked John Clavering in the eyes.
Secretly and in darkness those three whom Grey **** had killed were borne into the nave of Blythburgh church and there laid in the grave which had been made ready for them. Till now their corpses had been kept above ground in the hope that the body of John Clavering the younger might be added to their number. But search as they would upon seashore and river-bank， nothing of him was ever seen again. This funeral was celebrated in the darkness， since neither Sir John nor Acour desired that all men should see three bodies that had been slain by one archer， aided by a merchant's lad， standing alone against a score， and know， to say naught of the wounded， that there was yet another to be added to the tale. Therefore they interred them by night with no notice of the ceremony.
It was a melancholy scene. The nave of the great church， lighted only with the torches borne by the six monks of the black Augustines from the neighbouring priory of St. Osyth； the candles， little stars of light， burning far away upon the altar； the bearers of the household of the Claverings and the uncoffined corpses lying on their biers by the edge of the yawning graves； the mourners in their mail； the low voice of the celebrating priest， a Frenchman， Father Nicholas， chaplain to Acour， who hurried through the Latin service as though he wished to be done with it； the deep shadows of the groined roof whereon the rain pattered--such were the features of this interment.
It was done at last， and the poor dead， but a few days before so full of vigour and of passion， were left to their last sleep in the unremembered grave. Then the mourners marched back to the manor across the Middle Marsh and sought their beds in a sad silence.
Shortly after daybreak they were called from them again by the news that those who had followed Hugh de Cressi had returned. Quickly they rose， thinking that these came back with tidings of accomplished vengeance， to find themselves face to face with seven starved and miserable men who， all their horses being dead， had walked hither from Dunwich.
The wretched story was learned at length， and then followed that violent scene， which has been told already， when Acour cursed his followers as cowards， and Clavering， sobered perhaps by the sadness of the midnight burial or by the memory of Arnold's words， reproved him.
Lastly， stung by the taunts that were heaped upon them， Sir Pierre de la Roche gave Hugh's message--that if they lifted hand against his love or his House he would kill them like ravening wolves， "which I think he certainly will do， for none can conquer him and his henchman，" he added shortly.
Then Sir John's rage flared up again like fire when fresh fuel is thrown on ashes. He cursed Hugh and Grey ****； he cursed his daughter； he even cursed Acour and asked for the second time how it came about that he who had brought all this trouble on him was given the evil name of traitor.
"I know not，" answered Sir Edmund fiercely， and laying his hand upon his sword， "but this I know， that you or any man will do well not to repeat it if you value life."
