“I will tell him if he lives,” sobbed Cicely.

He opened his eyes, which had shut, and answered—­

“Oh, he’ll live, he’ll live.  You have had many troubles, but, save for the creep of age and death, they are over.  I can see and know.”

Again he shut his eyes and the watchers thought that all was done, till of a sudden once more he opened them and added in broken tones—­

“The Abbot—­show him mercy—­if you can.  He is wicked and cruel, but I have been his confessor and know his heart.  He strove for a good end—­by an evil road.  Queen Catherine was the King’s lawful wife.  To seize the monasteries is shameless theft.  Also his blood is not English; he sees otherwise, and serves the Pope as I do, and Spain, as I do not.  As I have helped you, help him.  Judge not, that ye be not judged.  Promise!” and he raised himself a little on the bed and looked at her earnestly.

“I promise,” answered Cicely, and as she spoke Martin smiled.  Then his face turned quite grey, all the light went out of his eyes and a moment later Emlyn threw a linen cloth over his head.  It was finished.

Cicely returned to Christopher to find him sitting up in bed drinking a bowl of broth.

“Oh, my husband, my husband,” she said, casting her arms about him.  Then she took her son and laid him upon his father’s breast.

Three days had gone by and Christopher and Cicely were walking in the shrubbery of Shefton Hall.  By now, although still weak, he was almost recovered, whose only sickness had been grief and famine, for which joy and plenty are wonderful medicines.  It was evening, a pleasant and beautiful early winter evening just fading into night.  Seated on a bench he had been telling her his adventures, and they were a moving tale worthy, as Cicely wrote afterwards in a letter to old Jacob Smith that is still extant in her fine, quaint handwriting, to be recorded in a book, though this it would seem was never done.

He told her of the great fight on the ship Great Yarmouth, when they were taken by the two Turkish pirates, and of how bravely Father Martin bore himself.  Afterwards when they came to the galleys, by good fortune Martin, Jeffrey and he served on the same bench.  Then Martin fell sick of some Southern fever, and being in port at Tunis at the time, where they could get fruit, they nursed him back to life and strength.  Four months later the Emperor Charles attacked Tunis, and when it fell, through God’s mercy, they were rescued with the other Christian slaves, after which Martin returned to England taking old Sir John’s writings to be delivered to his next heir, for they all believed Cicely to be dead.

But Christopher and Jeffrey, having nothing to seek at home, stayed to fight with the Spaniards against the Turks, who had oppressed them so sorely.  When that war was over they made their way back to England, not knowing where else to go and having a score to settle against the Spanish Abbot of Blossholme, and—­well, she knew the rest.