“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. 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----”