s speech. Call to
Him, Cicely, and if He will not listen, hear me. I have a means of
death about me. Ask not what it is, but if at the end I turn on you and
strike, blame me not here or hereafter, for it will be love's blow, my
last service."

It seemed as though Cicely did not understand those heavy words, at the
least she took no heed of them.

"I'll pray again," she whispered, "though I fear that heaven's doors are
closed to me; no light comes through," and she knelt down.

For long, long she prayed, till at length weariness overcame her, and
Emlyn heard her breathing softly like one asleep.

"Let her sleep," she murmured to herself. "Oh! if I were sure--she
should never wake again to see the dawn. I have half a mind to do it,
but there it is, I am not sure. If there is a God He will never suffer
such a thing. I'd have paid the jewels, but what's the use? They would
have killed her all the same, for else where's their title? No, my heart
bids me wait."

Cicely awoke.

"Emlyn," she said in a low, thrilling voice, "do you hear me, Emlyn?
That angel has been with me again. He spoke to me," and she paused.

"Well, well, what did he say?"

"I don't know, Emlyn," she answered, confused; "it has gone from me.
But, Emlyn, have no fear, all is well with us, and not only with us but
with Christopher and the babe also. Oh, yes, with Christopher and the
babe also," and she let her fair head fall upon the couch and burst into
a flood of happy tears. Then, rising, she took up the child and kissed
it, laid herself down and slept sweetly.

Just then the dawn broke, a glorious dawn, and Emlyn held out her arms
to it in an ecstasy of gratitude. For with that light her terror passed
away as the darkness passed. She believed that God had spoken to Cicely
and for a while her heart was at peace.

When about eight o'clock that morning the door was opened to allow a
nun to bring them their food, she saw a sight which filled her with
amazement. Her own eyes, poor woman, were red with tears, for, like all
in the Priory, she loved Cicely, whom as a child she had nursed on her
knee, and with the other sisters had spent a sleepless night in prayer
for her, for Emlyn, and for Bridget, who was to be burned with them. She
had expected to find the victims prostrate and perhaps senseless with
fear, but behold! there they sat together in the window-place, dressed
in their best garments and talking quietly. Indeed, as she entered on