Father Martin looked at her. “Mother of God and St. Anthony!” he exclaimed. He had never seen anything so beautiful as the sight before him in the fine old hall and he feared he might relent. He cast his eyes down, he would not look at her. Indeed she was a witch, a witch and yet so young! “Do you dare to deny the authority of Mother Church?” he hissed. “You are a heretic and guilty of contumacy. You blaspheme.” Then turning to Mistress Mowbray he continued, “See that she is confined to her room and fed on bread and water till she comes to her senses. Failing that, the rack!” He rose to his full height and gave her one contemptuous glance, curling his thin lips and drawing down his brows, while the nostrils of his aquiline nose were lifted in scorn. “Good day to you, Mistress Mowbray,” he said, “see to my instructions,” and he departed. Aline went up to her room as bidden. Eleanor Mowbray followed. She did not lock the door, as, in her heart of hearts, even she trusted Aline as she would trust the laws of nature, much as she hated her. Aline might disobey, but she would never break her word. “Do not pass through that door again, until you are told. Promise me.” “I would rather you locked it,” said Aline. “The house might catch fire and I could not stay and be burned, even to obey you.” “Little fool,” said Mistress Mowbray, “if the door were locked you would be burned anyhow.” “That would be your doing, though. I should not have to do it myself. I want to keep my own liberty of action.” Mistress Mowbray slammed the door and went down-stairs. But she did not lock it. Aline was merely thinking in a vague general way that it would be risky to make any such promise and did not realise how nearly her words might have applied to the actual facts. She sat down on the edge of her bed, dazed. Surely she had been singled out for misfortune; blow after blow had fallen upon her, and she was only twelve and a half years old. First she had been left motherless, then her father’s small estate had been ruined. Next she was made an orphan. Then she had lost her only friends Ian and Audry and was left to the cruelties of Mistress Mowbray. And now there was this. The little heart almost grew bitter and she was tempted to say;--“I do not mind if they do kill me, everything is so terrible and sad and, O Father dear, your little girl is so very very lonely and unhappy she would like to die and come to you.” But the thought of her father made her think of life again and some of life’s happy days and of Audry and Ian, and she gave a great sob and a lump came into her throat; but she checked it before the tears came and stood up and drew herself together. “Father would have me brave; Ian would have me brave. Come, this is no time for crying, I must think hard.” “I might get out on to the moor at night, but I should certainly be caught. Besides I have nowhere to go.