“I have been working him even now to abandon her,” said Malvoisin; “but still, are there grounds enough to condemn this Rebecca for sorcery?⁠—Will not the Grand Master change his mind when he sees that the proofs are so weak?”

“They must be strengthened, Albert,” replied Mont-Fitchet, “they must be strengthened. Dost thou understand me?”

“I do,” said the Preceptor, “nor do I scruple to do aught for advancement of the Order⁠—but there is little time to find engines fitting.”

“Malvoisin, they must be found,” said Conrade; “well will it advantage both the Order and thee. This Templestowe is a poor Preceptory⁠—that of Maison-Dieu is worth double its value⁠—thou knowest my interest with our old Chief⁠—find those who can carry this matter through, and thou art Preceptor of Maison-Dieu in the fertile Kent⁠—How sayst thou?”

“There is,” replied Malvoisin, “among those who came hither with Bois-Guilbert, two fellows whom I well know; servants they were to my brother Philip de Malvoisin, and passed from his service to that of Front-de-Boeuf⁠—It may be they know something of the witcheries of this woman.”

“Away, seek them out instantly⁠—and hark thee, if a byzant or two will sharpen their memory, let them not be wanting.”

“They would swear the mother that bore them a sorceress for a zecchin,” said the Preceptor.

“Away, then,” said Mont-Fitchet; “at noon the affair will proceed. I have not seen our senior in such earnest preparation since he condemned to the stake Hamet Alfagi, a convert who relapsed to the Muslim faith.”