It was an awful night. Sometimes Cicely slept a little, but the most of it she spent in prayer. The fierce Emlyn neither slept nor prayed, except once or twice that vengeance might fall upon the Abbot’s head, for her whole soul was up in arms and it galled her to think that she and her beloved mistress must die shamefully while their enemy lived on triumphant and in honour. Even the infant seemed nervous and disturbed, as though some instinct warned it of terror at hand, for although it was well enough, against its custom it woke continually and wailed.
“Emlyn,” said Cicely towards morning, but before the light had come, after at length she had soothed it to rest, “do you think that Mother Matilda will be able to help us?”
“No, no; put it from your mind, dearie. She is weak and old, the road is rough and long, and mayhap she has never reached the place. It was a great venture for her to try such a journey, and if she came there, why, perhaps the Commissioner man had gone, or perhaps he will not listen, or perhaps he cannot come. What would he care about the burning of two witches a hundred miles away, this leech who is sucking himself full upon the carcass of some fat monastery? No, no, never count on her.”
“At least she is brave and true, Emlyn, and has done her best, for which may Heaven’s blessing rest upon her always. Now, what of Thomas Bolle?”
“Nothing, except that he is a red-headed jackass that can bray but daren’t kick,” answered Emlyn viciously. “Never speak to me of Thomas Bolle. Had he been a man long ago he’d have broken the neck of that rogue Abbot instead of dressing himself up like a he-goat and hunting his cows.”
“If what they say is true he did break the neck of Father Ambrose,” replied Cicely, with a faint smile. “Perhaps he made a mistake in the dark.”
“If so it is like Thomas Bolle, who ever wished the right thing and did the wrong. Talk no more of him, since I would not meet my end in a bad spirit. Thomas Bolle, who lets us die for his elfish pranks! A pest on the half-witted cur, say I. And after I had kissed him too!”
Cicely wondered vaguely to what she referred, then, thinking it well not to inquire, said—
“Not so, a blessing on him, say I, who saved my child from that hateful hag.”
Then there was silence for a while, the matter of poor Thomas Bolle and his conduct being exhausted between them, who indeed were in no mood for argument about people whom they would never see again. At last Cicely spoke once more through the darkness—