“Laugh not,” shouted Bolle. “Is it a matter of laughter that noble ladies and others whose lives are as dear to some,” and he glanced at Emlyn, “should grill like herrings because a poor fool walks about clad in skins to keep out the cold and frighten villains? Hark you, I played this trick. I am Beelzebub, also the ghost of Sir John Foterell. I entered the Priory chapel by a passage that I know, and saved yonder babe from murder and scared the murderess down to hell; yes, from the sham devil to the true. Why did I do it? Well, to protect the innocent and scourge the wicked in his pride. But the wicked seized the innocent and the innocent said nothing, fearing lest I should suffer with them, and——O God, you know the rest!
“It was a near thing, a very near thing, but I’m not the half-wit I’ve feigned to be for years. Moreover, I had a good horse and a heavy axe, and there are still true hearts round Blossholme; the dead men that lie yonder show it. Heaven has still its angels on the earth, though they wear strange shapes. There stands one of them, and there another,” and he pointed first to the fat and pompous Visitor, and next to the dishevelled Prioress, adding: “And now, Sir Commissioner, for all that I have done in the cause of justice I ask pardon of you who wear the King’s grace and majesty as I wore old Nick’s horns and hoofs, since otherwise the Abbot and his hired butchers, who hold themselves masters of King and people, will murder me for this as they have done by better men. Therefore pardon, your Mightiness, pardon,” and he kneeled down before him.
“You have it, Bolle; in the King’s name you have it,” replied Legh, who was more flattered by the titles and attributes poured upon him by the cunning Thomas than a closer consideration might have warranted. “For all that you have done, or left undone, I, the Commissioner of his Grace, declare that you shall go scot free and that no action criminal or civil shall lie against you, and this my secretary shall give to you in writing. Now, good fellow, rise, but steal Satan’s plumes no more lest you should feel his claws and beak, for he is an ill fowl to mock. Bring hither that Spaniard Maldon. I have somewhat to say to him.”
Now they looked this way and that, but no Abbot could they see. The guards swore that they had never taken eye off him, even when they all ran before the devil, yet certainly he was gone.
“The knave has given us the slip,” bellowed the Commissioner, who was purple with rage. “Search for him! Seize him, for which my command shall be your warrant. Draw the wood. I’ll to the Abbey, where perchance the fox has gone to earth. Five golden crowns to the man who nets the slimy traitor.”
Now every one, burning with zeal to show their loyalty and to win the crowns, scattered on the search, so that presently the three “witches,” Thomas Bolle, Mother Matilda, and the nuns, were left standing almost alone and staring at each other and the dead and wounded men who lay about.
“Let us to the Priory,” said Mother Matilda, “for by the sun I judge that it is time for evening prayer, and there seem to be none to hinder us.”
Thomas went to her horse, which grazed close at hand, and led it up.
“Nay, good friend,” she exclaimed, with energy, “while I live no more of that evil beast for me. Henceforth I’ll walk till I am carried. Keep it, Thomas, as a gift; it is bought and paid for. Sister, your arm.”
“Have I done well, Emlyn?” Bolle asked, as he tightened the girths.