eans. The Abbot of Blossholme, who sits
as my judge, is my grievous enemy. He claimed my father's lands--which
lands I believe he now holds--and cruelly murdered my said father by
King's Grave Mount in the forest as he was riding to London to make
complaint of him and reveal his treachery to his Grace the King and his
Council----"

"It is a lie, witch," broke in the Abbot, but, taking no heed, Cicely
went on--

"Afterwards he and his hired soldiers attacked the house of my husband,
Sir Christopher Harflete, and burnt it, slaying, or striving to
slay--I know not which--my said husband, who has vanished away. Then he
imprisoned me and my servant, Emlyn Stower, in this Nunnery, and strove
to force me to sign papers conveying all my own and my child's property
to him. This I refused to do, and therefore it is that he puts me on my
trial, because, as I am told, those who are found guilty of witchcraft
are stripped of all their possessions, which those take who are strong
enough to keep them. Lastly, I deny the authority of this Court, and
appeal to the King, who soon or late will hear my cry and avenge my
wrongs, and maybe my murder, upon those who wrought them. Good people
all, hear my words. I appeal to the King, and to him under God above I
entrust my cause, and, should I die, the guardianship of my orphan son,
whom the Abbot sent his creature to murder--his vile creature, upon
whose head fell the Almighty's justice, as it will fall on yours, you
slaughterers of the innocent."

So spoke Cicely, and, having spoken, worn out with fatigue and misery,
sank to the floor--for all these hours there had been no stool for her
to sit on--and crouched there, still holding her child in her arms--a
piteous sight indeed, which touched even the superstitious hearts of the
crowd who watched her.

Now this appeal of hers to the King seemed to scare the fierce Old
Bishop, who turned and began to argue with the Abbot. Cicely, listening,
caught some of his words, such as--

"On your head be it, then. I judge only of the cause ecclesiastic, and
shall direct it to be so entered upon the records. Of the execution of
the sentence or the disposal of the property I wash my hands. See you to
it."

"So spoke Pilate," broke in Cicely, lifting her head and looking him in
the eyes. Then she let it fall again, and was silent.

Now Emlyn opened her lips, and from them burst a fierce torrent of
words.

"Do you know," she began, "who and what is