She shook her head, and Cicely sighed in relief, adding—
“Who, then? Oh! was that dream true?”
“Aye, dear; you are an orphan.”
The girl’s head fell forward. Then she lifted it, and asked—
“Who told you? Give me all the truth or I shall die.”
“A friend of mine who has to do with the Abbey yonder; ask not his name.”
“I know it, Emlyn; Thomas Bolle,” she whispered back.
“A friend of mine,” repeated the tall, dark woman, “told me that Sir John Foterell, your sire, was murdered last night in the forest by a gang of armed men, of whom he slew two.”
“From the Abbey?” queried Cicely in the same whisper.
“Who knows? I think it. They say that the arrow in his throat was such as they make there. Jeffrey Stokes was hunted, but escaped on to some ship that had her anchor up.”