"Say you so, indeed. And who may you be, madame, who dares to dictate terms to his Majesty’s representatives? Have a care, madame, have a care." "It matters little who I am, my lord," answered Cicely with some spirit, "save only this. I am no spy, no common tale-bearer. I would not willingly lay information against any man, and I vow that, do what ye may, I will not speak a word further on the subject till I have your assurance of my cousin’s pardon." Lord Jeffreys scowled savagely, but she met his glance unflinchingly, and he turned away with an oath and swallowed a glass of wine. "Well! Well!" he exclaimed testily. "Out with thy story, girl. Who is this rebel?" "You swear to me my cousin shall be pardoned?" "Aye, aye. You shall have her pardon, an the affair prove serious enow to merit it—a hanging matter. Now, the name of your rebel, and be speedy, madame." "’Tis—’tis Captain Miles Protheroe." "Miles Protheroe!" A shout of astonishment from the officers present greeted the name, all eyes were turned on the informer. Only Colonel Kirke remained silent, but he turned in his chair, and leaned forward with an eager glint in his eyes, and his teeth gleamed white behind his black beard. Then Cicely told her story. The silence, the universal attention frightened her. She stammered, broke down, struggled on again. Only the thought of Barbara nerved her to a finish. Jeffreys helped her by an occasional sharp question, the rest of her audience sat in silence. When she had finished her tale she turned to the lord chief justice eagerly. "Is—is that a hanging matter, my lord?" she asked, shuddering involuntarily at the question. "Oh, aye, ’twill serve, I doubt not." "Then the pardon, my lord," she urged timidly. "Pardon? Eh, what? What pardon?" "For my cousin, Mistress Winslow. You swore she should be pardoned, if I spoke." Jeffreys looked round the table with a low laugh of amusement. Then he slowly drained his glass. "To be sure," he said. "To be sure. She shall be pardoned, freely pardoned—when her sentence has been executed." Cicely’s heart grew suddenly cold. "My lord! What mean you?" she gasped. "Surely—you cannot——No! No! You swore to me she should have a free pardon." "So she shall, so she shall," assented the judge. "A full and free pardon, two years from to-day. I’ll answer for it." Cicely held out her hands in helpless entreaty. "Ah! no, my lord. Surely you are jesting with me," she cried. "Tut, you fool," he answered impatiently. "Do you deem a pardon is so easily won? Jesting, forsooth; aye, ’tis a jest, i’ faith," he laughed brutally, "but I doubt if Mistress Winslow will find it so. They shall tell her on’t after her first taste of the whip, and see if her wits can mark the humour on’t." He laughed heartily at this suggestion, some of his comrades and satellites joining in his mirth.