“What may you mean, my Lord Abbot?” asked Mother Matilda, bridling up.  “My sisters and I do not understand.  Emlyn Stower is right.  Do you call that witchcraft which works so good an end?  The ghost of Sir John Foterell appeared here—­we admit it who saw that ghost.  But what did the spirit do?  It slew the hellish woman whom you sent among us and it rescued the blessed babe when her finger was down its throat to choke out its pure life.  If that be witchcraft I stand by it.  Tell us what did the wretch mean when she cried out to the spirit to spare her because she was poor and had been bribed for her iniquity?  Who bribed her, my Lord Abbot?  None in this house, I’ll swear.  And who changed Sir John Foterell from flesh to spirit?  Why is he a ghost to-day?”

“Am I here to answer riddles, woman, and who are you that you dare put such questions to me?  I depose you, I set your house under ban.  The judgment of the Church shall be pronounced against you all.  Dare not to leave your doors until the Court is composed to try you.  Think not you shall escape.  Your English land is sick and heresy stalks abroad; but,” he added slowly, “fire can still bite and there is store of faggots in the woods.  Prepare your souls for judgment.  Now I go.”

“Do as it pleases you,” answered the enraged Mother Matilda.  “When you set out your case we will answer it; but, meanwhile, we pray that you take what is left of your dead hireling with you, for we find her ill company and here she shall have no burial.  My Lord Abbot, the charter of this Nunnery is from the monarch of England, whatever authority you and those that went before you have usurped.  It was granted by the first Edward, and the appointment of every prioress since his day has been signed by the sovereign and no other.  I hold mine under the manual of the eighth Henry.  You cannot depose me, for I appeal from the Abbot to the King.  Fare you well, my Lord,” and, followed by her little train of aged nuns, she swept from the room like an offended queen.

After the terrible death of the child-murderess and the restoration of her babe to her unharmed, Cicely’s recovery was swift.  Within a week she was up and walking, and within ten days as strong, or stronger, than ever she had been.  Nothing more had been heard of the Abbot, and though all knew that danger threatened them from this quarter they were content to enjoy the present hour of peace and wait till it was at hand.

But in Cicely’s awakened mind there arose a keen desire to learn more of what her nurse had hinted to her when she lay upon the very edge of death.  Day by day she plied Emlyn with questions till at length she knew all; namely, that the tidings came from Thomas Bolle, and that he, dressed in her father’s armour, was the ghost who had saved her boy from death.  Now nothing would serve her but that she must see Thomas herself, as she said, to thank him, though truly, as Emlyn knew well, to draw from his own lips every detail and circumstance that she could gather concerning Christopher.