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 one of them—­it was Cicely—­laughed a little at something that the other had said.

“Good-morning to you, Sister Mary,” said Cicely.  “Tell me now, has the Prioress returned?”

“Nay, nay, we know not where she is; no word has come from her.  Well, at least she will be spared a dreadful sight.  Have you any message for her ear?  If so, give it swiftly ere the guard call me.”

“I thank you,” said Cicely; “but I think that I shall be the bearer of my own messages.”

“What?  Do you, then, mean that our Mother is dead?  Must we suffer woe upon woe?  Oh! who could have told you these sorrowful tidings?”

“No, sister, I think that she is alive and that I, yet living, shall talk with her again.”

Sister Mary looked bewildered, for how, she wondered, could close prisoners know these things?  Staring round to see that she was not observed, she thrust two little packets into Cicely’s hand.

“Wear these at the last, both of you,” she whispered.  “Whatever they say we believe you innocent, and for your sake we have done a great crime.  Yes, we have opened the reliquary and taken from it our most precious treasure, a fragment of the cord that bound St. Catherine to the wheel, and divided it into three, one strand for each of you.  Perhaps, if you are really guiltless, it will work a miracle.  Perhaps the fire will not burn or the rain will extinguish it, or the Abbot may relent.”