The old nun drew herself up, and answered—­

“Who has the right to say to the Prioress of Blossholme that she shall not travel whither she will?  No Spanish Abbot, I think.  Why, but now that proud priest’s servants would have forbidden me to enter your chamber in my own House, but I read them a lesson they will not forget.  Also I have horses at my command, but it is true I need an escort, who am not too strong and little versed in the ways of the outside world, where I have scarcely strayed for many years.  Now I have bethought me of that red-haired lay-brother, Thomas Bolle.  I am told that though foolish, he is a valiant man whom few care to face; moreover, that he understands horses and knows all roads.  Do you think, Emlyn Stower, that Thomas Bolle will be my companion on this journey, with leave from the Abbot, or without it?” and again she looked her in the eyes.

“He might, he might; he is a venturous man, or so I remember him in my youth,” answered Emlyn.  “Moreover, his forefathers have served the Harfletes and the Foterells for generations in peace and war, and doubtless, therefore, he loves my lady yonder.  But the trouble is to get at him.”

“No trouble at all, Emlyn; he is one of the watch outside the gate.  But, woman, what token?”

Emlyn thought for a moment, then drew a ring off her finger in which was set a cornelian heart.

“Give him this,” she said, “and say that the wearer bade him follow the bearer to the death, for the sake of that wearer’s life and another’s.  He is a simple soul, and if the Abbot does not catch him first I believe that he will go.”

Mother Matilda took the ring and set it on her own finger.  Then she walked to where Cicely lay sleeping, looked at her and the boy upon her breast.  Stretching out her thin hands, she called down the blessing and protection of Almighty God upon them both, then turned to depart.

Emlyn caught her by the robe.

“Stay,” she said.  “You think I do not understand; but I do.  You are giving up everything for us.  Even if you live through it, this House, which has been your charge for many years, will be dissolved; your sheep will be scattered to starve in their toothless age; the fold that has sheltered them for four hundred years will become a home of wolves.  I understand full well, and she”—­pointing to the sleeping Cicely—­“will understand also.”

“Say nothing to her,” murmured Mother Matilda; “I may fail.”

“You may fail, or you may succeed.  If you fail and we burn, God shall reward you.  If you succeed and we are saved, on her behalf I swear that you shall not suffer.  There is wealth hidden away—­wealth worth many priories; you and yours shall have your share of it, and that Commissioner shall not go lacking.  Tell him that there is some small store to pay him for his trouble, and that the Abbot of Blossholme would rob him of it.  Now, my Lady Margaret—­for that, I think, used to be your name, and will be again when you have done with priests and nuns—­bless me also and begone, and know that, living or dead, I hold you great and holy.”