A long while went by, and Bridget returned with a confused tale, which, as it had been gathered by an imbecile from a deaf gardener, was not easy to understand. Meanwhile the shoutings went on and the fire at the Abbey burnt ever more fiercely, so that the nuns thought that their last hour had come, and knelt down to pray at the casement.
Just then Cicely and Emlyn appeared among them, and stared at the great fire.
Suddenly Cicely turned round, and, fixing her large blue eyes on Emlyn, said, in the hearing of them all—
“The Abbey burns. Why, Nurse, they told me that you said it would be so, yonder amid the ashes of Cranwell Towers. Surely you are foresighted.”
“Fire calls for fire,” answered Emlyn grimly, and the nuns around looked at her with doubtful eyes.
It was a very fierce fire, which appeared to have begun in the dormitories, whence, even at that distance, they saw half-clad monks escaping through the windows, some by means of bed-coverings tied together and some by jumping, notwithstanding the height. Presently the roof of the building fell in, sending up showers of glowing embers, which lit upon the thatch of the farm byres and sheds, and upon the ricks built and building in the stackyard, so that all these caught also, and before dawn were utterly consumed.
One by one the watchers in the Nunnery wearied of the lamentable sight, and muttering prayers, departed terrified to their beds. But Emlyn sat on at the open casement till the rim of the splendid September sun showed above the hills. There she sat, her head resting on her hand, her strong face set like that of a statue. Only her dark eyes, in which the flames were reflected, seemed to smile hardly.
“Thomas is a great tool,” she muttered to herself at length, “and the first cut has bitten to the bone. Well, there shall be worse to come. You will live to beg Emlyn’s mercy yet, Clement Maldonado.”