The Convent bell chimed ten, and they heard a sound of feet and voices below.
“They come for us,” said Emlyn; “the burning is set for eleven, that after the sight folk may get away in comfort to their dinners. Now summon that great Faith of yours and hold him fast for both our sakes, since mine grows faint.”
The door opened and through it came monks followed by guards, the officer of whom bade them rise and follow. They obeyed without speaking, Cicely throwing her cloak about her shoulders.
“You’ll be warm enough without that, Witch,” said the man, with a hideous chuckle.
“Sir,” she answered, “I shall need it to wrap my child in when we are parted. Give me the babe, Emlyn. There, now we are ready; nay, no need to lead us, we cannot escape and shall not vex you.”
“God’s truth, the girl has spirit!” muttered the officer to his companions, but one of the priests shook his head and answered—
“Witchcraft! Satan will leave them presently.”
A few more minutes and, for the first time during all those weary months, they passed the gate of the Priory. Here the third victim was waiting to join them, poor, old, half-witted Bridget, clad in a kind of sheet, for her habit had been stripped off. She was wild-eyed and her grey locks hung loose about her shoulders, as she shook her ancient head and screamed prayers for mercy. Cicely shivered at the sight of her, which indeed was dreadful.
“Peace, good Bridget,” she said as they passed, “being innocent, what have you to fear?”
“The fire, the fire!” cried the poor creature. “I dread the fire.”