Now this appeal of hers to the King seemed to scare the fierce Old Bishop, who turned and began to argue with the Abbot.  Cicely, listening, caught some of his words, such as—­

“On your head be it, then.  I judge only of the cause ecclesiastic, and shall direct it to be so entered upon the records.  Of the execution of the sentence or the disposal of the property I wash my hands.  See you to it.”

“So spoke Pilate,” broke in Cicely, lifting her head and looking him in the eyes.  Then she let it fall again, and was silent.

Now Emlyn opened her lips, and from them burst a fierce torrent of words.

“Do you know,” she began, “who and what is this Spanish priest who sits to judge us of witchcraft?  Well, I will tell you.  Years ago he fled from Spain because of hideous crimes that he had committed there.  Ask him of Isabella the nun, who was my father’s cousin, and her end and that of her companions.  Ask him of——­”

At this point a monk, to whom the Abbot had whispered something, slipped behind Emlyn and threw a cloth over her face.  She tore it away with her strong hands, and screamed out—­

“He is a murderer, he is a traitor.  He plots to kill the King.  I can prove it, and that’s why Foterell died—­because he knew——­”

The Abbot shouted something, and again the monk, a stout fellow named Ambrose, got the cloth over her mouth.  Once more she wrenched herself loose, and, turning towards the people, called—­

“Have I never a friend, who have befriended so many?  Is there no man in Blossholme who will avenge me of this brute Ambrose?  Aye, I see some.”

Then this Ambrose, and others aiding him, fell upon her, striking her on the head and choking her, till at length she sank, half stunned and gasping, to the ground.

Now, after a hurried word or two with his colleagues, the Bishop sprang up, and as darkness gathered in the hall—­for the sun had set—­pronounced the sentence of the Court.

First he declared the prisoners guilty of the foulest witchcraft.  Next he excommunicated them with much ceremony, delivering their souls to their master, Satan.  Then, incidentally, he condemned their bodies to be burnt, without specifying when, how, or by whom.  Out of the gloom a clear voice spoke, saying—­

“You exceed your powers, Priest, and usurp those of the King.  Beware!”

A tumult followed, in which some cried “Aye” and some “Nay,” and when at length it died down the Bishop, or it may have been the Abbot—­for none could see who spoke—­exclaimed—­

“The Church guards her own rights; let the King see to his.”

“He will, he will,” answered the same voice.  “The Pope is in his bag.  Monks, your day is done.”

Again there was tumult, a very great tumult.  In truth the scene, or rather the sounds, were strange.  The Bishop shrieking with rage upon the bench, like a hen that has been caught upon her perch at night, the black-browed Prior bellowing like a bull, the populace surging and shouting this and that, the secretary calling for candles, and when at length one was brought, making a little star of light in that huge gloom, putting his hand to his mouth and roaring—­