“He is a murderer, he is a traitor. He plots to kill the King. I can prove it, and that’s why Foterell died—because he knew——”
The Abbot shouted something, and again the monk, a stout fellow named Ambrose, got the cloth over her mouth. Once more she wrenched herself loose, and, turning towards the people, called—
“Have I never a friend, who have befriended so many? Is there no man in Blossholme who will avenge me of this brute Ambrose? Aye, I see some.”
Then this Ambrose, and others aiding him, fell upon her, striking her on the head and choking her, till at length she sank, half stunned and gasping, to the ground.
Now, after a hurried word or two with his colleagues, the Bishop sprang up, and as darkness gathered in the hall—for the sun had set—pronounced the sentence of the Court.
First he declared the prisoners guilty of the foulest witchcraft. Next he excommunicated them with much ceremony, delivering their souls to their master, Satan. Then, incidentally, he condemned their bodies to be burnt, without specifying when, how, or by whom. Out of the gloom a clear voice spoke, saying—
“You exceed your powers, Priest, and usurp those of the King. Beware!”
A tumult followed, in which some cried “Aye” and some “Nay,” and when at length it died down the Bishop, or it may have been the Abbot—for none could see who spoke—exclaimed—
“The Church guards her own rights; let the King see to his.”
“He will, he will,” answered the same voice. “The Pope is in his bag. Monks, your day is done.”