to lift you, Clement Maldon, to the topmost pinnacle of her temple,
whence Satan shows you all the kingdoms of the world, swearing that they
shall be yours."

Apparently the Abbot did not resent this bold speech; indeed, Emlyn's
apt illustration seemed to please him. Only he corrected her gently,
saying--

"Not Satan, but Satan's Lord." Then he paused a while, looked round the
chamber to see that the doors were shut and make sure that they were
alone, and went on, "Emlyn Stower, you have great wits and courage--more
than any woman that I know. Also you have knowledge both of the world
and of what lies beyond it, being what superstitious fools call a witch,
but I, a prophetess or a seer. These things come to you with your blood,
I suppose, seeing that your mother was of a gypsy tribe and your
father a high-bred Spanish gentleman, very learned and clever, though a
pestilent heretic, for which cause he fled for his life from Spain."

"To find his dark death in England. The Holy Inquisition is patent and
has a long arm. If I remember right, also it was this business of the
heresy of my father that first brought you to Blossholme, where, after
his vanishing and the public burning of that book of his, you so greatly
prospered."

"You are always right, Emlyn, and therefore I need not tell you further
that we had been old enemies in Spain, which is why I was chosen to hunt
him down and how you come to know certain things."

She nodded, and he went on--

"So much for the heretic father--now for the gypsy mother. She died, by
her own hand it is said, to escape the punishment of the law."

"No need to beat about the bush, Abbot; let's have truth between old
friends. You mean, to escape being burnt by you as a witch, because she
had the letters which were not burned and threatened to use them--as I
do."

"Why rake up such tales, Emlyn?" he interposed blandly. "At least she
died, but not until she had taught you all she knew. The rest of the
history is short. You fell in love with old yeoman Bolle's son, or said
you did--that same great, silly Thomas who is now a lay-brother at the
Abbey----"

"Or said I did," she repeated. "At least he fell in love with me, and
perhaps I wished an honest man to protect me, who in those days was
young and fair. Moreover, he was not silly then. That came upon him
after he fell into _your_ hands. Oh! have done with it," she went on,
in a voice of suppressed passion. "The witch's fair daught