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 his 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.”