“Lucy Passmore, the white witch to Welcombe. Don't you mind Lucy Passmore, as charmed your warts for you when you was a boy?”
“Lucy Passmore!” almost shrieked all three friends. “She that went off with—”
“Yes! she that sold her own soul, and persuaded that dear saint to sell hers; she that did the devil's work, and has taken the devil's wages;—after this fashion!” and she held up her scarred wrists wildly.
“Where is Dona de—Rose Salterne?” shouted Will and Jack.
“Where is my brother Frank?” shouted Amyas.
“Dead, dead, dead!”
“I knew it,” said Amyas, sitting down again calmly.
“How did she die?”
“The Inquisition—he!” pointing to the monk. “Ask him—he betrayed her to her death. And ask him!” pointing to the bishop; “he sat by her and saw her die.”
“Woman, you rave!” said the bishop, getting up with a terrified air, and moving as far as possible from Amyas.