nnery, and sent for Cicely and Emlyn. They found him alone in the

we met you refused to sign the deed which I brought with me. Well, it

ked not the title?

ell, let it pass, for now I have a paper with me that you must sign. Read it if you will. It is harmless-only an instruc

seeing that you hold

nstruction under your hand and seal. The farms your father worked himself I have reape

ay me their value when we come to settle our score, seeing tha

ed, biting his lip. "I have no time to bandy

at it, then slowly tore it into fo

st I'll be no thief's partner," she said quietly. "Now,

s face gre

s sinners such as you are can be shut in a dark dungeon and fed on the bread and water of afflicti

ue eyes filled with the tears of shame and terror. Then the

s a God who protects the innocent, though sometimes He is slow to lift His hand, and to Him I appeal, my Lord Abbot. I know, moreover, that I am

rage, he began to rate and curse her and to threaten horrible things against her and her mistress,

uel word you speak shall become a snake to strike you. Will you not take w

of that, do you? As I thought, yo

ose stolen lands bring no luck, it seems, and John Foterell's blood has turned to fire. Be warned, I say, be warned. Nay, I'll

the Abbot had an inter

us witch. Also, when the time of the birth of the child came on, he would send a wise woman to wait upon her, one who was accustomed to such cases-for her body's sake and that of her child. In the midst of the great trouble that had fallen up

gentle, brought pain and astonishment to the h

r hands of the whole business, and rather than enforce such commands would lay the case before the Vicar-General in London, who, she understood, was ready to look into such matters. Or at least she would set the Lady Harflete and her servant outside the gates and call upon the charitable to assist them. Of course, however, if his Lordship chose to send a skilled woman to wait upo

on, butts, and leaps, and tramples. Then what chance has that dog against the terrible and unsuspected fury of the sheep, born, as it thought, for it to tear? Then what can it do but run, panting and discomfited, to its kennel? So it was with the Abbot at the onslaught of Mother Matilda in the defence

"right of gallows," could not drive matters to an extremity. Cicely was not shut into the dungeon and fed on bread and water, much less was she scourged. Nor was she separated from her nurse Emlyn, altho

ll, where, as all shepherds in that country know, there is a sheer drop of forty feet. Never was lamb's flesh so cheap in Blossholme and the country round as on the morrow of that night, while every hind within t

t was perceived walking in the gardens of Shefton Hall, where it met the Abbot's caretaker-for the place was now shut up-as he went to set a springe for

er, the said ghost travelled far and wide, for on dark, windy nights it knocked upon the doors of those that in its lifetime had been its tenants, and in a hollow voice declared that it had been murdered

ow straight through it, at which it laughed and forthwith vanished away. More; in proof of these things he led the Abbot and his monks to the very place, and showed them where he had stood and where the ghost stood-yes, and the arrow, of which all the feather

eward through the wood, but as they went a dreadful voice, which all recognized as that of Sir John F

whom thou didst murder, summon thee to mee

, his horse did, Thomas Bolle, who had lagged behind, outrunning

ghost was seen no more. Doubtless its work was done; but the Abbot ex

got amongst them, the herd and a watchman-for now no man would stir alone after sunset at Blossholme-went to see what was happening, and presently fell down half dead wi

after that night no one could milk those cows; moreover, some of them

king, and Emlyn Stower, who was praying there, came out vowing that she had seen a ball of fire which rolled

drew Woods, or more commonly Drunken Andrew, a Scotchman whom Sir Christopher Harflete was said to have killed on the night of the great burning. At least his Lordship would remember that this Andrew had a broke

if Emlyn had seen so terrible a thing there, how it came about that she was not afraid to be alone in the chapel, which

woman, because you are a witch, and summon them; nor shall we be f

Andrew for his message to you next time we meet,

peatedly called him by his name, summoning him to look out and see. He and others rose and looked, but could see nothing, for the night was very dark and rain fell. When the dawn came, however, their search was

ewitched the cows, only shrugged their shoulders, and suggested that the grave of Andrew should be opened to see if he had los

beam of oakwood stuffed out with straw to the shape of a man and sewn up in a blanket. For the real Andrew, or rather wha

seen by all men in the withered head of Andrew perched upon its pinnacle, whence none could be found to remove it for love or money. Only it was noted that the Abbot

rch, and the Church prepared to resist the King. There was talk of the suppression of the monasteries-some, in fact, had already been suppre

ws that awaited him found a message from the Prioress, over which he pondered whi

ad borne with resignation, seeing that, although it meant the loss of his letters, which were of importance, she had aboard of her several persons whom he wished to see no more, especially Sir Christopher Harflete and Sir John Foterell's serving-man, Jeffrey Stokes, who was

ough and thorny road. For the dead tell no tales, although it was true that the ghost of Sir John Foterell and the grinning head of Drunken Andrew on his pinnacle seemed to be instances to the contra

or other infidel pirates and taken away through the Straits of Gibraltar to some place unknown. Therefore, if he had survived the voyage, Christopher Harflete might still be living, and so might Jeffrey Stokes and Brother Martin.

was the girl in the Nunnery and an unborn child, and-yes, Emlyn Stower. Well, he was sure that the child would not live, and probably the mother would not live. As for Emlyn, as she deserved, she would be burned for a witch, ere long too, now

a woman known as Goody Megges, bidding her come at once. Within ten minut

with small oblong eyes and a little, twisted mouth, which had caused her to be nicknamed "the Flounder." She greeted the Abbot with much reverence, cu

since this is no place for the services of tho

"I've heard it is to wait upon Sir Chri

But a mock-marriage does not make a wife, Mistress Megges, and, alas! the poor babe, if eve

who was no fool, be

sort about here, as is generally the case round a-I mean everywhere. Moreover, they generally grow up bad and ungrateful, as I know well from my own three-not but what, of course, I was married fast enough. Well,

us to rail at the decree of Heaven-provided, of course, that the

like a heifer that has lost its first calf, and I said to her, 'Mary, this isn't me; it's Heaven. Mary, you should be very thankful, since my burden has rid you of your burden, and you can bury such a tiny one for n

th mild interest, "and pr

ar off my own fence-for we were talking by the door-oak it was, and three by two-and knocked me flat-here's the scar of it on my head-singing out, 'Is tha

after her hideous fashion, while

o blame. Now, good Mistress Megges, will you undertake this case, which cannot be left to ignorant nuns? Tho

loor, then looked up suddenly with a glance that se

eaven through my fingers, as in my time I have kno

en I think, mistress, you should have double pay, to console you for

ry is haunted, and I can't face ghosts. Man or woman, with rails or without 'em, Mother Flounder doesn't mind, but ghosts-no! Also Mist

short. What is it you wa

eep their mouths shut and to look the other way, and through vile scandal and evil slanderers, such as the Smith girl, my bus

more of the creature, rose fr

And report to me night and morning of the progress of the case. Why, woman, what are you doi

sk absolution and blessing-pax

here is nothin

ere are rows of little angels that sometimes won't let me sleep, and that's why I can't stomach ghost

voice that she scrambled to her feet

he went to the window and flung it

me, its head and spring, for money. Give me money, and within six months Yorkshire and the North will be up, and without a year Henry the Anti-Christ will be dead and the Princess Mary fast upon the throne, with the Emperor and the Pope for watchdogs. That stiff-necked Cicely must die and her babe must die, and then I'll twist the secret of the jewels out of the witch, Emlyn-on the rack, if need be. T