The bishop, who had been slowly recovering his senses, looked at her a moment; and then thrusting his chair back, crossed himself, and almost screamed, “Malefica!  Malefica!  Who brought her here?  Turn her away, gentlemen; turn her eye away; she will bewitch, fascinate”—­and he began muttering prayers.

Amyas seized him by the shoulder, and shook him on to his legs.

“Swine! who is this?  Wake up, coward, and tell me, or I will cut you piecemeal!”

But ere the bishop could answer, the woman uttered a wild shriek, and pointing to the taller of the two monks, cowered behind Yeo.

“He here?” cried she, in broken Spanish.  “Take me away!  I will tell you no more.  I have told you all, and lies enough beside.  Oh! why is he come again?  Did they not say that I should have no more torments?”

The monk turned pale:  but like a wild beast at bay, glared firmly round on the whole company; and then, fixing his dark eyes full on the woman, he bade her be silent so sternly, that she shrank down like a beaten hound.

“Silence, dog!” said Will Cary, whose blood was up, and followed his words with a blow on the monk’s mouth, which silenced him effectually.

“Don’t be afraid, good woman, but speak English.  We are all English here, and Protestants too.  Tell us what they have done for you.”

“Another trap! another trap!” cried she, in a strong Devonshire accent.  “You be no English!  You want to make me lie again, and then torment me.  Oh! wretched, wretched that I am!” cried she, bursting into tears.  “Whom should I trust?  Not myself:  no, nor God; for I have denied Him!  O Lord!  O Lord!”

Amyas stood silent with fear and horror; some instinct told him that he was on the point of hearing news for which he feared to ask.  But Jack spoke—­

“My dear soul! my dear soul! don’t you be afraid; and the Lord will stand by you, if you will but tell the truth.  We are all Englishmen, and men of Devon, as you seem to be by your speech; and this ship is ours; and the pope himself sha’n’t touch you.”

“Devon?” she said doubtingly; “Devon!  Whence, then?”

“Bideford men.  This is Mr. Will Cary, to Clovelly.  If you are a Devon woman, you’ve heard tell of the Carys, to be sure.”

The woman made a rush forward, and threw her fettered arms round Will’s neck,—­

“Oh, Mr. Cary, my dear life!  Mr. Cary! and so you be!  Oh, dear soul alive! but you’re burnt so brown, and I be ’most blind with misery.  Oh, who ever sent you here, my dear Mr. Will, then, to save a poor wretch from the pit?”

“Who on earth are you?”

“Lucy Passmore, the white witch to Welcombe.  Don’t you mind Lucy Passmore, as charmed your warts for you when you was a boy?”

“Lucy Passmore!” almost shrieked all three friends.  “She that went off with—­”

“Yes! she that sold her own soul, and persuaded that dear saint to sell hers; she that did the devil’s work, and has taken the devil’s wages;—­after this fashion!” and she held up her scarred wrists wildly.