“Strange things have happened to many who trusted in God; to that the whole evil world bears witness,” said Emlyn doubtfully.

“May be,” answered Cicely in her quiet fashion, “perhaps because they did not trust enough or rightly.  At least there lies my path and I will walk in it—­to the fire if need be.”

“There is some seed of greatness in you; to what will it grow, I wonder?” replied Emlyn, with a shrug of her shoulders.

On the morrow this faith of Cicely’s was put to a sharp test.  The Abbot came and spoke with Emlyn apart.  This was the burden of his song—­

“Give me those jewels and all may yet be well with you and your mistress, vile witches though you are.  If not, you burn.”

As before she denied all knowledge of them.

“Find me the jewels or you burn,” he answered.  “Would you pay your lives for a few miserable gems?”

Now Emlyn weakened, not for her own sake, and said she would speak with her mistress.

He bade her do so.

“I thought that those jewels were burned, Emlyn, do you then know where they are?” asked Cicely.

“Aye, I have said nothing of it to you, but I know.  Speak the word and I give them up to save you.”

Cicely thought a while and kissed her child, which she held in her arms, then laughed aloud and answered—­

“Not so.  That Abbot shall never be richer for any gem of mine.  I have told you in what I trust, and it is not jewels.  Whether I burn or whether I am saved, he shall not have them.”

“Good,” said Emlyn, “that is my mind also, I only spoke for your sake,” and she went out and told the Abbot.

He came into Cicely’s chamber and raged at them.  He said that they should be excommunicated, then tortured and then burned; but Cicely, whom he had thought to frighten, never winced.

“If so, so let it be,” she replied, “and I will bear all as best I can.  I know nothing of these jewels, but if they still exist they are mine, not yours, and I am innocent of any witchcraft.  Do your work, for I am sure that the end shall be far other than you think.”

“What!” said the Abbot, “has the foul fiend been with you again that you talk thus certainly?  Well, Sorceress, soon you will sing another tune,” and he went to the door and summoned the Prioress.

“Put these women upon bread and water,” he said, “and prepare them for the rack, that they may discover their accomplices.”

Mother Matilda set her gentle face, and answered—­

“It shall not be done in this Nunnery, my Lord Abbot.  I know the law, and you have no such power.  Moreover, if you move them hence, who are my guests, I appeal to the King, and meanwhile raise the country on you.”

“Said I not that they had accomplices?” sneered the Abbot, and went his way.

But of the torture no more was heard, for that appeal to the King had an ill sound in his ears.