“Because my father was a Spaniard, and through him I know that which would ruin him with his friends, the Pope and the Emperor.  Also, he believes that I have the evil eye, and dreads my curse.  Still, one day he may try to murder me; who knows?  Only then the secret of the jewels will go with me, for that is mine alone; not yours even, for if you had it they would squeeze it out of you.  Meanwhile he will try to profess you a nun, but push him off with soft words.  Say that you will think of it after your child is born.  Till then he can do nothing, and, if Mother Matilda’s fresh tidings are true, by that time perchance there will be no more nuns in England.”

Now very quietly and by the side door they were entering the old reception-hall, that was only used for the entertainment of visitors and on other great occasions, and close to them saw the Abbot seated in his chair, while the Prioress stood before him, rendering her accounts.

“Whether you can spare it or no,” they heard him say sharply, “I must have the half-year’s rent.  The times are evil; we servants of the Lord are threatened by that adulterous king and his proud ministers, who swear they will strip us to the shirt and turn us out to starve.  I’m but just from London, and, although our enemy Anne Boleyn has lost her wanton head, I tell you the danger is great.  Money must be had to stir up rebellion, for who can arm without it, and but little comes from Spain.  I am in treaty to sell the Foterell lands for what they will fetch, but as yet can give no title.  Either that stiff-necked girl must sign a release, or she must profess, for otherwise, while she lives, some lawyer or relative might upset the sale.  Is she yet prepared to take her first vows?  If not, I shall hold you much to blame.”

“Nay,” answered the Prioress; “there are reasons.  You have been away, and have not heard”—­she hesitated and looked about her nervously, to see Cicely and Emlyn standing behind them.  “What do you there, daughter?” she asked, with as much asperity as she ever showed.

“In truth I know not, Mother,” answered Cicely.  “Sister Bridget told us that the Lord Abbot desired our presence.”

“I bid her say that you were to wait him in my chamber,” said the Prioress in a vexed voice.

“Well,” broke in the Abbot, “it would seem that you have a fool for a messenger; if it is that pockmarked hag, her brain has been gone for years.  Ward Cicely, I greet you, though after the sorrows that have fallen on you, whereof by your leave we will not speak, since there is no use in stirring up such memories, I grieve to see you in that worldly garb, who thought you would have changed it for a better.  But ere you entered the holy Mother here spoke of some obstacle that stood between you and God.  What is it?  Perchance my counsel may be of service.  Not this woman, as I trust,” and he frowned at Emlyn, who at once answered, in her steady voice—­