For a moment there was deep silence; then the Abbot asked—­

“Whence come you, Mistress Cicely?”

“Out of the fire,” she answered in a small, cold voice.

“Out of the fire!  How did you live through the fire?”

“God sent His angel to save us,” she answered, again in that small voice.

“A miracle,” muttered the monk; “a true miracle!”

“Or mayhap Emlyn Stower’s witchcraft,” exclaimed one of the men behind; and Maldon started at his words.

“Lead me to my husband, my Lord Abbot, lest, thinking me dead, his heart should break,” said Cicely.

Now again there was silence so deep that they could hear the patter of every drop of falling rain.  Twice the Abbot strove to speak, but could not, but at the third effort his words came.

“The man you call your husband, but who was not your husband, but your ravisher, was slain in the fray last night, Cicely Foterell.”

She stood quite quiet for a while, as though considering his words, then said, in the same unnatural voice—­

“You lie, my Lord Abbot.  You were ever a liar, like your father the devil, for the angel told me so in the midst of the fire.  Also he told me that, though I seemed to see him fall, Christopher is alive upon the earth—­yes, and other things, many other things;” and she passed her hand before her eyes and held it there, as though to shut out the sight of her enemy’s face.

Now the Abbot trembled in his terror, he who knew that he lied, though at that time none else there knew it.  It was as though suddenly he had been haled before the Judgment-seat where all secrets must be bared.

“Some evil spirit has entered into you,” he said huskily.

She dropped her hand, pointing at him.

“Nay, nay; I never knew but one evil spirit, and he stands before me.”

“Cicely,” he went on, “cease your blaspheming.  Alas! that I must tell it you.  Sir Christopher Harflete is dead and buried in yonder churchyard.”

“What!  So soon, and all uncoffined, he who was a noble knight?  Then you buried him living, and, living, in a day to come he shall rise up against you.  Hear my words, all.  Christopher Harflete shall rise up living and give testimony against this devil in a monk’s robe, and afterwards—­afterwards—­” and she laughed shrilly, then suddenly fell down and lay still.

Now Emlyn, the dark and handsome, as became her Spanish, or perhaps gypsy blood, who all this while had stood silent, her arms folded upon her high bosom, leaned down and looked at her.  Then she straightened herself, and her face was like the face of a beautiful fiend.