"If so it is like Thomas Bolle, who ever wished the right thing and did
the wrong. Talk no more of him, since I would not meet my end in a bad
spirit. Thomas Bolle, who lets us die for his elfish pranks! A pest on
the half-witted cur, say I. And after I had kissed him too!"

Cicely wondered vaguely to what she referred, then, thinking it well not
to inquire, said--

"Not so, a blessing on him, say I, who saved my child from that hateful
hag."

Then there was silence for a while, the matter of poor Thomas Bolle and
his conduct being exhausted between them, who indeed were in no mood for
argument about people whom they would never see again. At last Cicely
spoke once more through the darkness--

"Emlyn, I will try to be brave; but once, do you remember, I burnt my
hand as a child when I stole the sweetmeats from the cooling pot, and
ah! it hurt me. I will try to die as those who went before me would
have died, but if I should break down think not the less of me, for the
spirit is willing though the flesh be weak."

Emlyn ground her teeth in silence, and Cicely went on--

"But that is not the worst of it, Emlyn. A few minutes and it will
be over and I shall sleep, as I think, to awake elsewhere. Only if
Christopher should really live, how he will mourn when he learns----"

"I pray that he does," broke in Emlyn, "for then ere long there will be
a Spanish priest the less on earth and one the more in hell."

"And the child, Emlyn, the child!" she went on in a trembling voice, not
heeding the interruption. "What will become of my son, the heir to so
much if he had his rights, and yet so friendless? They'll murder
him also, Emlyn, or let him die, which is the same thing, since how
otherwise will they get title to his lands and goods?"

"If so, his troubles will be done and he will be better with you in
heaven," Emlyn answered, with a dry sob. "The boy and you in heaven
midst the blessed saints, and the Abbot and I in hell settling our score
there with the devil for company, that's all I ask. There, there, I
blaspheme, for injustice makes me mad; it clogs my heart and I throw it
up in bitter words, for your sake, dear, and his, not my own. Child, you
are good and gentle, to such as you the Ear of God is open. Call to him;
ask for light, He will not refuse. Do you remember in the fire at the
Towers, when we crouched in that vault and the walls crumbled overhead,
you said you saw His angel bending over us and heard hi