up
my lady and bear her to the church, for there we will lay her out as
becomes her rank; though not with her jewels, her great and priceless
jewels, for which she was hunted like a doe. She must lie without her
jewels; her pearls and coronet, and rings, her stomacher and necklets
of bright gems, that were worth so much more than those beggarly
acres--those that once a Sultan's woman wore. They are lost, though
perhaps yonder Abbot has found them. Sir John Foterell bore them to
London for safe keeping, and good Sir John is dead; footpads set on him
in the forest, and an arrow shot from behind pierced his throat. Those
who killed him have the jewels, and the dead bride must lie without
them, adorned in the naked beauty that God gave to her. Lift her, John
Athey, and you monks, set up your funeral chant; we'll to the church.
The bride who knelt before the altar shall lie there before the
altar--Clement Maldonado's last offering to God. First the father, then
the husband, and now the wife--the sweet, new-made wife!"
So she raved on, while they stood before her dumb-founded, and the man
lifted up Cicely. Then suddenly this same Cicely, whom all thought dead,
opened her eyes and struggled from his arms to her feet.
"See," screamed Emlyn; "did I not tell you that Harflete's seed should
live to be avenged upon all your tribe, and she stands there who will
bear it? Now where shall we shelter till England hears this tale?
Cranwell is down, though it shall rise again, and Shefton is stolen.
Where shall we shelter?"
"Thrust away that woman," said the Abbot in a hoarse voice, "for her
witchcrafts poison the air. Set the Lady Cicely on a horse and bear her
to our Nunnery of Blossholme, where she shall be tended."
The men advanced to do his bidding, though very doubtfully. But Emlyn,
hearing his words, ran to the Abbot and whispered something in his ear
in a foreign tongue that caused him to cross himself and stagger back
from her.
"I have changed my mind," he said to the servants. "Mistress
Emlyn reminds me that between her and her lady there is the tie of
foster-motherhood. They may not be separated as yet. Take them both
to the Nunnery, where they shall dwell, and as for this woman's words,
forget them, for she was mad with fear and grief, and knew not what she
said. May God and His saints forgive her, as I do."
CHAPTER VII
THE ABBOT'S OFFER
The Nunnery at Blossholme was a peaceful place, a long, grey-gabled
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