When at length he had finished Emlyn asked leave to cross-examine him, but this was refused on the ground that persons accused of such crimes had no right to cross-examine.

Then the Court adjourned for a while to eat, some food being brought for the prisoners, who were forced to take it where they stood.  Worse still, Cicely was driven to nurse her child in the presence of all that audience, who stared and gibed at her rudely, and were angry because Emlyn and some of the nuns stood round her to form a living screen.

When the judges returned the evidence went on.  Though most of it was entirely irrelevant, its volume was so great that at length the Old Bishop grew weary, and said he would hear no more.  Then the judges went on to put, first to Cicely and afterwards to Emlyn, a series of questions of a nature so abominable that after denying the first of them indignantly, they stood silent, refusing to answer—­proof positive of their guilt, as the black-browed Prior remarked in triumph.  Lastly, these hideous queries being exhausted, Cicely was asked if she had anything to say.

“Somewhat,” she answered; “but I am weary, and must be brief.  I am no witch; I do not know what it means.  The Abbot of Blossholme, who sits as my judge, is my grievous enemy.  He claimed my father’s lands—­which lands I believe he now holds—­and cruelly murdered my said father by King’s Grave Mount in the forest as he was riding to London to make complaint of him and reveal his treachery to his Grace the King and his Council——­”

“It is a lie, witch,” broke in the Abbot, but, taking no heed, Cicely went on—­

“Afterwards he and his hired soldiers attacked the house of my husband, Sir Christopher Harflete, and burnt it, slaying, or striving to slay—­I know not which—­my said husband, who has vanished away.  Then he imprisoned me and my servant, Emlyn Stower, in this Nunnery, and strove to force me to sign papers conveying all my own and my child’s property to him.  This I refused to do, and therefore it is that he puts me on my trial, because, as I am told, those who are found guilty of witchcraft are stripped of all their possessions, which those take who are strong enough to keep them.  Lastly, I deny the authority of this Court, and appeal to the King, who soon or late will hear my cry and avenge my wrongs, and maybe my murder, upon those who wrought them.  Good people all, hear my words.  I appeal to the King, and to him under God above I entrust my cause, and, should I die, the guardianship of my orphan son, whom the Abbot sent his creature to murder—­his vile creature, upon whose head fell the Almighty’s justice, as it will fall on yours, you slaughterers of the innocent.”

So spoke Cicely, and, having spoken, worn out with fatigue and misery, sank to the floor—­for all these hours there had been no stool for her to sit on—­and crouched there, still holding her child in her arms—­a piteous sight indeed, which touched even the superstitious hearts of the crowd who watched her.