"Tut, tut, daughter," he said; "what is the good of vapouring of a child
that is not and may never be? When it comes I will christen it, and we
will talk."

"When it comes you will not lay a finger on it. I'd rather that it went
unbaptized to its grave than marked with your cross of blood."

He waved his hand.

"There is another matter, or rather two, of which I must speak to you,
my daughter. When do you take your first vows?"

"We will talk of it after my child is born. 'Tis a child of sin, you
say, and I am unrepentant, a wicked woman not fit to take a holy vow, to
which, moreover, you cannot force me," she replied, with bitter sarcasm.

Again he waved his hand, for the she-wolf showed her teeth.

"The second matter is," he went on, "that I need your signature to a
writing. It is nothing but a form, and one I fear you cannot read,
nor in faith can I," and with a somewhat doubtful smile he drew out a
crabbed indenture and spread it before her on the table.

"What?" she laughed, brushing aside the parchment. "Have you remembered
that yesterday I came of age, and am, therefore, no more your ward, if
such I ever was? You should have sold my inheritance more swiftly, for
now the title you can give is rotten as last year's apples, and I'll
sign nothing. Bear witness, Mother Matilda, and you, Emlyn Stower,
that I have signed and will sign nothing. Clement Maldon, Abbot of
Blossholme, I am a free woman of full age, even though, as you say, I am
a wanton. Where is your right to chain up a wanton who is no religious?
Unlock these gates and let me go."

Now he felt the wolf's fangs, and they were sharp.

"Whither would you go?" he asked.

"Whither but to the King, to lay my cause before him, as my father would
have done last Christmas-time."

It was a bold speech, but foolish. The she-wolf had loosed her hold to
growl--to growl at a hunter with a bloody sword.

"I think your father never reached his Grace with his sack of
falsehoods; nor might you, Cicely Foterell. The times are rough,
rebellion is in the air, and many wild men hunt the woods and roads. No,
no; for your own sake you bide here in safety till----"

"Till you murder me. Oh! it is in your mind. Do you remember the angel
who spoke with me in the fire and told me my husband was not dead?"

"A lying spirit, then; no angel."

"I am not so sure," and again she passed her hand across her eyes, as
she had done in that dreadful dawn at Cranwell. "Well, I