“Lady, two of her crew reached the Wash.  I did not see them, and they have shipped again for Marseilles in France.  But I spoke with a shepherd who is half-brother to one of them, and he told me that from him he learned that the Great Yarmouth was set upon by two Turkish pirates and captured after a brave fight in which the captain Goody and others were killed.  This man and his comrade escaped in a boat and drifted to and fro till they were picked up by a homeward-bound caravel which landed them at Hull.  That’s all I know—­save one thing.”

“One thing!  Oh, what thing, Thomas?  That my husband is dead?”

“Nay, nay, the very opposite, that he is alive, or was, for these men saw him and Jeffrey Stokes and Martin the priest, no craven as I know, fighting like devils till the Turks overwhelmed them by numbers, and, having bound their hands, carried them all three unwounded on board one of their ships, wishing doubtless to make slaves of such brave fellows.”

Now, although Emlyn would have stopped her, still Cicely plied him with questions, which he answered as best he could, till suddenly a sound caught his ear.

“Look at the window!” he exclaimed.

They looked, and saw a sight that froze their blood, for there staring at them through the glass was the dark face of the Abbot, and with it other faces.

“Betray me not, or I shall burn,” he whispered.  “Say only that I came to haunt you,” and silently as a shadow he glided to his niche and was gone.

“What now, Emlyn?”

“One thing only—­Thomas must be saved.  A bold face and stand to it.  Is it our fault if your father’s ghost should haunt this chapel?  Remember, your father’s ghost, no other.  Ah! here they come.”

As she spoke the door was thrown wide, and through it came the Abbot and his rout of attendants.  Within two paces of the women they halted, hanging together like bees, for they were afraid, while a voice cried, “Seize the witches!”

Cicely’s terror passed from her and she faced them boldly.

“What would you with us, my Lord Abbot?” she asked.

“We would know, Sorceress, what shape was that which spoke with you but now, and whither has it gone?”

“The same that saved my child and called the Sword of God down upon the murderess.  It wore my father’s armour, but its face I did not see.  It has gone whence it came, but where that is I know not.  Discover if you can.”

“Woman, you trifle with us.  What said the Thing?”

“It spoke of the slaughter of Sir John Foterell by King’s Grave Mount and of those who wrought it,” and she looked at him steadily until his eyes fell before hers.

“What else?”

“It told me that my husband is not dead.  Neither did you bury him as you put about, but shipped him hence to Spain, whence it prophesied he will return again to be revenged upon you.  It told me that he was captured by the infidel Moors, and with him Jeffrey Stokes, my father’s servant, and the priest Martin, your secretary.  Then it looked up and vanished, or seemed to vanish, though perhaps it is among us now.”