“Aye,” answered the Abbot, “Satan, with whom you hold converse, is always among us.  Cicely Foterell and Emlyn Stower, you are foul witches, self-confessed.  The world has borne your sorceries too long, and you shall answer for them before God and man, as I, the Lord Abbot of Blossholme, have right and authority to make you do.  Seize these witches and let them be kept fast in their chamber till I constitute the Court Ecclesiastic for their trial.”

So they took hold of Cicely and Emlyn and led them to the Nunnery.  As they crossed the garden they were met by Mother Matilda and the nuns, who, for a second time within a month, ran out to see what was the tumult in the chapel.

“What is it now, Cicely?” asked the Prioress.

“Now we are witches, Mother,” she answered, with a sad smile.

“Aye,” broke in Emlyn, “and the charge is that the ghost of the murdered Sir John Foterell was seen speaking to us.”

“Why, why?” exclaimed the Prioress.  “If the spirit of a woman’s father appears to her is she therefore to be declared a witch?  Then is poor Sister Bridget a witch also, for this same spirit brought the child to her?”

“Aye,” said the Abbot, “I had forgotten her.  She is another of the crew, let her be seized and shut up also.  Greatly do I hope, when it comes to the hour of trial, that there may not be found to be more of them,” and he glanced at the poor nuns with menace in his eye.

So Cicely and Emlyn were shut within their room and strictly guarded by monks, but otherwise not ill-treated.  Indeed, save for their confinement, there was little change in their condition.  The child was allowed to be with Cicely, the nuns were allowed to visit her.

Only over both of them hung the shadow of great trouble.  They were aware, and it seemed to them purposely suffered to be aware, that they were about to be tried for their lives upon monstrous and obscene charges; namely, that they had consorted with a dim and awful creature called the Enemy of Mankind, whom, it was supposed, human beings had power to call to their counsel and assistance.  To them who knew well that this being was Thomas Bolle, the thing seemed absurd.  Yet it could not be denied that the said Thomas at Emlyn’s instigation had worked much evil on the monks of Blossholme, paying them, or rather their Abbot, back in his own coin.

Yet what was to be done?  To tell the facts would be to condemn Thomas to some fearful fate which even then they would be called upon to share, although possibly they might be cleared of the charge of witchcraft.

Emlyn set the matter before Cicely, urging neither one side nor the other, and waited her judgment.  It was swift and decisive.

“This is a coil that we cannot untangle,” said Cicely.  “Let us betray no one, but put our trust in God.  I am sure,” she added, “that God will help us as He did when Mother Megges would have murdered my boy.  I shall not attempt to defend myself by wronging others.  I leave everything to Him.”