CHAPTER IV.
THE ABBOT'S OATH On the following morning, shortly after it was light, Christopher was called from his chamber by Emlyn, who gave him a letter.
"Whence came this ?" he asked, turning it over suspiciously.
"A messenger has brought it from Blossholme Abbey," she answered.
"Wife Cicely," he called through the door, "come hither if you will." Presently she appeared, looking quaint and lovely in her long fur cloak, and, having embraced her foster-mother, asked what was the matter.
"This, my darling," he answered, handing her the paper.

"I never loved book-learnings over-much, and this morn I seem to hate them; read, you who are more scholarly." "I mistrust me of that great seal; it bodes us no good, Chris," she replied doubtfully, and paling a little.
"The message within is no medlar to soften by keeping," said Emlyn.
"Give it me.

I was schooled in a nunnery, and can read their scrawls." So, nothing loth, Cicely handed her the paper, which she took in her strong fingers, broke the seal, snapped the silk, unfolded, and read.

It ran thus-- "To Sir Christopher Harflete, to Mistress Cicely Foterell, to Emlyn Stower, the waiting-woman, and to all others whom it may concern.
"I, Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, having heard of the death of Sir John Foterell, Knt., at the cruel hands of the forest thieves and outlaws, sent last night to serve the declaration of my wardship, according to my prerogative established by law and custom, over the person and property of you, Cicely, his only child surviving.

My messengers returned saying that you had fled from your home of Shefton Hall.