“Then I take the curse off you and yours, John Athey.  Now lift up my lady and bear her to the church, for there we will lay her out as becomes her rank; though not with her jewels, her great and priceless jewels, for which she was hunted like a doe.  She must lie without her jewels; her pearls and coronet, and rings, her stomacher and necklets of bright gems, that were worth so much more than those beggarly acres—­those that once a Sultan’s woman wore.  They are lost, though perhaps yonder Abbot has found them.  Sir John Foterell bore them to London for safe keeping, and good Sir John is dead; footpads set on him in the forest, and an arrow shot from behind pierced his throat.  Those who killed him have the jewels, and the dead bride must lie without them, adorned in the naked beauty that God gave to her.  Lift her, John Athey, and you monks, set up your funeral chant; we’ll to the church.  The bride who knelt before the altar shall lie there before the altar—­Clement Maldonado’s last offering to God.  First the father, then the husband, and now the wife—­the sweet, new-made wife!”

So she raved on, while they stood before her dumb-founded, and the man lifted up Cicely.  Then suddenly this same Cicely, whom all thought dead, opened her eyes and struggled from his arms to her feet.

“See,” screamed Emlyn; “did I not tell you that Harflete’s seed should live to be avenged upon all your tribe, and she stands there who will bear it?  Now where shall we shelter till England hears this tale?  Cranwell is down, though it shall rise again, and Shefton is stolen.  Where shall we shelter?”

“Thrust away that woman,” said the Abbot in a hoarse voice, “for her witchcrafts poison the air.  Set the Lady Cicely on a horse and bear her to our Nunnery of Blossholme, where she shall be tended.”

The men advanced to do his bidding, though very doubtfully.  But Emlyn, hearing his words, ran to the Abbot and whispered something in his ear in a foreign tongue that caused him to cross himself and stagger back from her.

“I have changed my mind,” he said to the servants.  “Mistress Emlyn reminds me that between her and her lady there is the tie of foster-motherhood.  They may not be separated as yet.  Take them both to the Nunnery, where they shall dwell, and as for this woman’s words, forget them, for she was mad with fear and grief, and knew not what she said.  May God and His saints forgive her, as I do.”

CHAPTER VII

THE ABBOT’S OFFER

The Nunnery at Blossholme was a peaceful place, a long, grey-gabled house set under the shelter of a hill and surrounded by a high wall.  Within this wall lay also the great garden—­neglected enough—­and the chapel, a building that still was beautiful in its decay.