“Our Commissioner?  A fig for his valuing, doubtless he has been bribed.  Still, if we repay the money we can hold the land, and since this Dame Harflete and her husband have suffered sorely at the hands of Maldon and his armed ruffians, why, let it pass also.  Now, is that all?  I weary of so much talk.”

“But one thing more, your Grace,” put in Cromwell hastily, for Henry was already rising from his chair.  “Dame Cicely Harflete, her servant, Emlyn Stower, and a certain crazed old nun were condemned of sorcery by a Court Ecclesiastic whereof the Abbot Maldon was a member, the said Abbot alleging that they had bewitched him and his goods.”

“Then he was pleader and judge in one?”

“That is so, your Grace.  Already without the royal warrant they were bound to the stake for burning, the said Maldon having usurped the prerogative of the Crown, when your Commissioner, Legh, arrived and loosed them, but not without fighting, for certain men were killed and wounded.  Now they humbly crave your Majesty’s royal pardon for their share in this man-slaying, if any, as also does Thomas Bolle yonder, who seems to have done the slaying——­”

“Well can I believe it,” muttered the King.

“And a declaration of the invalidity of their trial and condemning, and of their innocence of the foul charge laid against them.”

“Innocence!” exclaimed Henry, growing impatient and fixing on the last point.  “How do we know they were innocent, though it is true that if Dame Harflete is a witch she is the prettiest that ever we have heard of or seen.  You ask too much, after your fashion, Cromwell.”

“I crave your Grace’s patience for one short minute.  There is a man here who can prove that they were innocent; yonder red-haired Bolle.”

“What?  He who praised our shooting?  Well, Bolle, since you are so good a sportsman, we will listen to you.  Prove and be brief.”

“Now all is finished,” murmured Emlyn to Cicely, “for assuredly fool Thomas will land us in the mire.”

“Your Grace,” said Bolle in his big voice, “I obey in four words—­I was the devil.”

“The devil you were, Thomas Bolle.  Now, your meaning?”

“Your Grace, Blossholme was haunted, I haunted it.”

“How could you do otherwise if you lived there?”

“I’ll show your Grace,” and without more ado, to the horror of Cicely, Thomas tumbled from his sack all his hellish garb and set to work to clothe himself.  In a minute, for he was practised at the game, the hideous mask was on his head, and with it the horns and skin of the widow’s billy-goat; the tail and painted hides were tied about him, and in his hand he waved the eel spear, short-handled now.  Thus arrayed he capered before the astonished King and Queen, shaking the tail that had a wire in it and clattering his hoofs upon the floor.

“Oh, good devil!  Most excellent devil!” exclaimed his Majesty, clapping his hands.  “If I had met thee I’d have run like a hare.  Stay, Jane, peep you through yonder door and tell me who are gathered there.”