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-- “What of this Bridget? Does she go free?” The Bishop made no answer; it seemed as though he were frightened at the forces which he had let loose; but the Abbot hallooed back-- “Burn the hag with the others,” and the secretary wrote it down upon his brief. Then the guards seized the three of them to lead them away, and the frightened babe set up a thin, piercing wail, while the Bishop and his companions, preceded by one of the monks bearing the candle--it was that Ambrose who had choked Emlyn--marched in procession down the hall to gain the great door.