Cicely had sunk to sleep at last, and Emlyn watched her, for, since there was nowhere else to put them, they were back in their own room, but guarded by armed men, lest they should escape. Of this, as Emlyn knew well, there was little chance, for even if they were once outside the Priory walls, how could they get away without friends to help, or food to eat, or horses to carry them? They would be run down within a mile. Moreover, there was the child, which Cicely would never leave, and, after all she had undergone, she herself was not fit to travel. Therefore it was that Emlyn sat sleepless, full of bitter wrath and fear, for she could see no hope. All was black as the night about them.
The door opened, and was shut and locked again. Then, from behind the curtain, appeared the tall figure of the Prioress, carrying a candle that made a star of light upon the shadows. As she stood there holding it up and looking about her, something came into Emlyn’s mind. Perhaps she would help, she who loved Cicely. Did she not look like a figure of hope, with her sweet face and her taper in the gloom? Emlyn advanced to meet her, her finger on her lips.
“She sleeps; wake her not,” she said. “Have you come to tell us that we burn to-morrow?”
“Nay, Emlyn; the Old Bishop has commanded that it shall not be for a week. He would have time to get across England first. Indeed, had it not been for the beating of him in the dark and the twisting of the neck of Brother Ambrose, I believe that he would not have suffered it at all, for fear of trouble afterwards. But now he is full of rage, and swears that he was set upon by evil spirits in the hall, and that those who loosed them shall not live. Emlyn, who killed Father Ambrose? Was it men or——?”
“Men, I think, Mother. The devil does not twist necks except in monkish dreams. Is it wonderful that my lady—the greatest lady of all these parts and the most foully treated—should have friends left to her? Why, if they were not curs, ere now her people would have pulled that Abbey stone from stone and cut the throat of every man within its walls.”
“Emlyn,” said the Prioress again, “in the name of Jesus and on your soul, tell me true, is there witchcraft in all this business? And if not, what is its meaning?”
“As much witchcraft as dwells in your gentle heart; no more. A man did these things; I’ll not give you his name, lest it should be wrung from you. A man wore Foterell’s armour, and came here by a secret hole to take counsel with us in the chapel. A man burnt the Abbey dormers and the stacks, and harried the beasts with a goatskin on his head, and dragged the skull of drunken Andrew from his grave. Doubtless it was his hand also that twisted Ambrose’s neck because he struck me.”
The two women looked each other in the eyes.
“Ah!” said the Prioress. “I think I can guess now; but, Emlyn, you choose rough tools. Well, fear not; your secret is safe with me.” She paused a moment; then went on, “Oh! I am glad, who feared lest the Fiend’s finger was in it all, as, in truth, they believe. Now I see my path clear, and will follow it to the death. Yes, yes; I will save you all or die.”
“What path, Mother?”