Cicely's heart grew suddenly cold.
"My lord! What mean you?" she gasped. "Surely—you cannot——No! No! You swore to me she should have a free pardon."
"So she shall, so she shall," assented the judge. "A full and free pardon, two years from to-day. I'll answer for it."
Cicely held out her hands in helpless entreaty.
"Ah! no, my lord. Surely you are jesting with me," she cried.
"Tut, you fool," he answered impatiently. "Do you deem a pardon is so easily won? Jesting, forsooth; aye, 'tis a jest, i' faith," he laughed brutally, "but I doubt if Mistress Winslow will find it so. They shall tell her on't after her first taste of the whip, and see if her wits can mark the humour on't."
He laughed heartily at this suggestion, some of his comrades and satellites joining in his mirth.
But Cicely gave way utterly. She fell at his feet; she sobbed out desperate entreaties to pitiless deaf ears.
"Ah! no, no, my lord, it cannot be, you cannot mean it. Say you do but jest. Surely it is enough, this thing that I have done. For I have told you, told you all I know. Ah! tell me what more I can do, what more to win her pardon. Indeed I will do anything—anything, an you will but pardon. Ah! my lord, my lord!"
Jeffreys looked down at her and laughed. Then he poured himself another glass of wine, and pushed the bottle on to his neighbour.