“Have I not told you—never. Get you behind me, O evil man, and go, repent your sins ere it be too late.”
The Abbot stared at her, feeling that such constancy and courage were almost superhuman. He had an acute, imaginative mind which could fancy himself in like case and what his state would be. Though he was in such haste a great curiosity entered into him to know whence she drew her strength, which even then he tried to satisfy.
“Are you mad or drugged, Cicely Foterell?” he asked. “Do you not know how fire will feel when it eats up that delicate flesh of yours?”
“I do not know and I shall never know,” she answered quietly.
“Do you mean that you will die before it touches you, building on some promise of your master, Satan?”
“Yes, I shall die before the fire touches me; but not here and now, and I build upon a promise from the Master of us all in heaven.”
He laughed, a shrill, nervous laugh, and called out loud to the people around—
“This witch says that she will not burn, for Heaven has promised it to her. Do you not, Witch?”
“Yes, I say so; bear witness to my words, good people all,” replied Cicely in clear and ringing tones.
“Well, we’ll see,” shouted the Abbot. “Man, bring flame, and let Heaven—or hell—help her if it can!”