"Peace, peace, Deb. 'Tis too horrible."
"Aye, is't not indeed so? They say there be a thousand prisoners, all told. Yet belike 'twill not be death to all, though his lordship has vowed to show no mercy. And the women; there be many among the victims. 'Tis truly awful. Mistress Brown from over by Lyme, I know not rightly of what she is accused, yet I think 'tis but a matter of some rash words, as that she would pay the excise dues to King Monmouth, or some such folly, but she is condemned to be scourged through every market-place in the country. And they say she as like not to be the only one to meet with such a sentence. But to think on't.—A woman—and but for a rash tongue. Why, who is safe? To be scourged! Oh! 'tis brutal."
"Child! Child! Will you drive me mad?" cried Cicely, unable to endure more. "Be silent."
Deborah stared at her in amazement.
"Indeed, I am sorry I have offended your ladyship," she murmured somewhat sulkily; "though I see not how. 'Tis but natural to feel pity for such misery, though they be but rebels and doubtless deserving of their fate. Yet 'tis horrible for all that. Martha Hemming saith she had seen——"
"Be silent, girl, I will hear no more," cried Cicely, springing to her feet in desperation.
And then she stopped, and her heart leaped in terror, for she heard in the hallway without the voice of Master Lane, calling to his wife, and she divined by his tone that the news he brought was ill.
She went out calmly to meet him.
"Prithee, tell me, sir, tell me all," she asked in a strange, quiet voice.
Master Lane started at sight of her. He hesitated, looking for his wife to come to his aid. Then, meeting the agonised look in her eyes he paused no longer, but stepped forward to take her hand between his own, and told her gently, tenderly, the terrible sentence passed upon her cousin.