Maldon shivered.  “Drawn, hanged and quartered,” he repeated beneath his breath.  “Drawn, hanged and quartered as a traitor to one I never served!”

“Why not?” asked Christopher.  “You have played a cruel game, and lost.”

He made no answer; indeed, it was Cicely who spoke, saying—­

“How came you in such a case?  We thought you fled.”

“Lady,” he answered, “I’ve starved for three days and nights in a hole in the ground like an earthed-up fox; a culvert in your garden hid me.  At last I crept out to see the light and die, and heard you talking, and thought that I would ask for mercy, since mortal extremity has no honour.”

“Mercy!” said Cicely.  “Of your treasons I say nothing, for you are not English, and serve your own king, who years ago sent you here to plot against England.  But look on this man, my husband.  Did he not starve for three days and nights in your strong dungeon ere you came thither to massacre him?  Did you not strive to burn him in his Hall, and ship him wounded across the seas to doom?  Did you not send your assassin to kill my babe, who stood between you and the wealth you needed for your plots, and bind me, the mother, to the stake—­a food for fire?  Did you not shoot down my father in the wood, fearing lest he should prove you traitor, and after rob me of my heritage?  Did you not compel your monks to work evil and bring some of them to their deaths?  Oh! have done!  Worm dressed up as God’s priest, how can you writhe there and ask for mercy?”

“I said I came to seek for mercy because the agony of sleepless hunger drove me, who now seek only death.  Insult not the fallen, Cicely Foterell, but take the vengeance that is your due, and kill,” replied the Abbot, looking up at her with his hollow eyes, adding, with a laugh that sounded like a groan, “Come, Sir Christopher; you have got a sword, and it is time you went to supper.  The air is cold; your wife—­if such she be—­said it but now.”

“Cicely,” said Christopher, “go to the Hall and summon Jeffrey Stokes.  Emlyn will know where to find him.”

“Emlyn!” groaned the Abbot.  “Give me not over to Emlyn.  She’d torture me.”

“Nay,” said Christopher, “this is not Blossholme Abbey; though what may chance in London I know not.  Go now, Wife.”

But Cicely did not stir; she only stared at the wretched creature at her feet.

“I bid you go,” repeated Christopher.

“And I’ll not obey,” she answered.  “Do you remember what I promised Martin ere he died?”

“Martin dead!  Is Martin, who saved your husband, dead?” exclaimed the Abbot, lifting his face and letting it fall again.  “Happy Martin, to be dead.”

“I was not there, and I am not bound by your promises, Cicely.”

“But I am, and you and I are one.  I vowed mercy to this man if he should fall into our power, and mercy he shall have.”

“Then you spare him to destroy us.  The wheels go round quick in England, Wife.”