this Spanish priest who sits
to judge us of witchcraft? Well, I will tell you. Years ago he fled from
Spain because of hideous crimes that he had committed there. Ask him of
Isabella the nun, who was my father's cousin, and her end and that of
her companions. Ask him of----"

At this point a monk, to whom the Abbot had whispered something, slipped
behind Emlyn and threw a cloth over her face. She tore it away with her
strong hands, and screamed out--

"He is a murderer, he is a traitor. He plots to kill the King. I can
prove it, and that's why Foterell died--because he knew----"

The Abbot shouted something, and again the monk, a stout fellow named
Ambrose, got the cloth over her mouth. Once more she wrenched herself
loose, and, turning towards the people, called--

"Have I never a friend, who have befriended so many? Is there no man in
Blossholme who will avenge me of this brute Ambrose? Aye, I see some."

Then this Ambrose, and others aiding him, fell upon her, striking her
on the head and choking her, till at length she sank, half stunned and
gasping, to the ground.

Now, after a hurried word or two with his colleagues, the Bishop
sprang up, and as darkness gathered in the hall--for the sun had
set--pronounced the sentence of the Court.

First he declared the prisoners guilty of the foulest witchcraft. Next
he excommunicated them with much ceremony, delivering their souls to
their master, Satan. Then, incidentally, he condemned their bodies to
be burnt, without specifying when, how, or by whom. Out of the gloom a
clear voice spoke, saying--

"You exceed your powers, Priest, and usurp those of the King. Beware!"

A tumult followed, in which some cried "Aye" and some "Nay," and when at
length it died down the Bishop, or it may have been the Abbot--for none
could see who spoke--exclaimed--

"The Church guards her own rights; let the King see to his."

"He will, he will," answered the same voice. "The Pope is in his bag.
Monks, your day is done."

Again there was tumult, a very great tumult. In truth the scene, or
rather the sounds, were strange. The Bishop shrieking with rage upon
the bench, like a hen that has been caught upon her perch at night,
the black-browed Prior bellowing like a bull, the populace surging and
shouting this and that, the secretary calling for candles, and when
at length one was brought, making a little star of light in that huge
gloom, putting his hand to his mouth and roaring--