re it lies, there it will be buried."

"So be it," answered Cicely. "God gave it; God save it. In God I put my
trust. Murderer, leave me to make my peace with Him," and she turned and
walked away.

Now the Abbot and Emlyn were face to face.

"Do we really burn on Monday?" she asked.

"Without doubt, unless faggots will not take fire. Yet," he added
slowly, "if certain jewels should chance to be found and handed over,
the case might be remitted to another Court."

"And the torment prolonged. My Lord Abbot, I fear that those jewels will
never be found."

"Well, then you burn--slowly, perhaps, for much rain has fallen of late
and the wood is green. They say the death is dreadful."

"Doubtless one day you will find it so, Clement Maldonado, here or
hereafter. But of that we will talk together when all is done--of that
and many other things. I mean before the Judgment-seat of God. Nay, nay,
I do not threaten after your fashion--it shall be so. Meanwhile I ask
the boon of a dying woman. There are two whom I would see--the Prioress
Matilda, in whose charge I desire to leave a certain secret, and Thomas
Bolle, a lay-brother in your Abbey, a man who once engaged himself to me
in marriage. For your own sake, deny me not these favours."

"They should be granted readily enough were it in my power, but it is
not," answered the Abbot, looking at her curiously, for he thought that
to them she might tell what she had refused to him--the hiding-place of
the jewels, which afterwards he could wring out.

"Why not, my Lord Abbot?"

"Because the Prioress has gone hence, secretly, upon some journey of her
own, and Thomas Bolle has vanished away I knew not where. If they, or
either of them, return ere Monday you shall see them."

"And if they do not return I shall see them afterwards," replied Emlyn,
with a shrug of her shoulders. "What does it matter? Fare you well till
we meet at the fire, my Lord Abbot."

On the Sunday--that is, the day before the burning--the Abbot came
again.

"Three days ago," he said, addressing them both, "I offered you a chance
of life upon certain conditions, but, obstinate witches that you are,
you refused to listen. Now I offer you the last boon in my power--not
life, indeed; it is too late for that--but a merciful death. If you will
give me what I seek, the executioner shall dispatch you both before the
fire bites--never mind how. If not--well, as I have told you, there has
been much rain, and