“What?” she laughed, brushing aside the parchment.  “Have you remembered that yesterday I came of age, and am, therefore, no more your ward, if such I ever was?  You should have sold my inheritance more swiftly, for now the title you can give is rotten as last year’s apples, and I’ll sign nothing.  Bear witness, Mother Matilda, and you, Emlyn Stower, that I have signed and will sign nothing.  Clement Maldon, Abbot of Blossholme, I am a free woman of full age, even though, as you say, I am a wanton.  Where is your right to chain up a wanton who is no religious?  Unlock these gates and let me go.”

Now he felt the wolf’s fangs, and they were sharp.

“Whither would you go?” he asked.

“Whither but to the King, to lay my cause before him, as my father would have done last Christmas-time.”

It was a bold speech, but foolish.  The she-wolf had loosed her hold to growl—­to growl at a hunter with a bloody sword.

“I think your father never reached his Grace with his sack of falsehoods; nor might you, Cicely Foterell.  The times are rough, rebellion is in the air, and many wild men hunt the woods and roads.  No, no; for your own sake you bide here in safety till——­”

“Till you murder me.  Oh! it is in your mind.  Do you remember the angel who spoke with me in the fire and told me my husband was not dead?”

“A lying spirit, then; no angel.”

“I am not so sure,” and again she passed her hand across her eyes, as she had done in that dreadful dawn at Cranwell.  “Well, I prayed to God to help me, and last night that angel came again and spoke in my sleep.  He told me to fear you not at all, my Lord Abbot; however sore my case and however near my death might seem, since God had shaped a stone to drop upon your head.  He showed it me; it was like an axe.”

Now the old Prioress held up her hands and gasped in horror, but the Abbot leapt from his seat in rage—­or was it fear?

“Wanton, you named yourself,” he exclaimed; “but I name you witch also, who, if you had your deserts, should die the death of a witch by fire.  Mother Matilda, I command you, on your oath, keep this witch fast and make report to me of all her sorceries.  It is not fitting that such a one should walk abroad to bring evil on the innocent.  Witch and wanton, begone to your chamber!”

Cicely listened, then, without another word, broke into a little scornful laugh, and, turning, left the room, followed by the Prioress.

But Emlyn did not go; she stayed behind, a smile on her dark, handsome face.

“You’ve lost the throw, though all your dice were loaded,” she said boldly.

The Abbot turned on her and reviled her.

“Woman,” he said, “if she is a witch, you’re the familiar, and certainly you shall burn even though she escape.  It is you who taught her how to call up the devil.”

“Then you had best keep me living, my Lord Abbot, that I may teach her how to lay him.  Nay, threaten not.  Why, the rack might make me speak, and the birds of the air carry the matter!”