“They should be granted readily enough were it in my power, but it is not,” answered the Abbot, looking at her curiously, for he thought that to them she might tell what she had refused to him--the hiding-place of the jewels, which afterwards he could wring out. “Why not, my Lord Abbot?” “Because the Prioress has gone hence, secretly, upon some journey of her own, and Thomas Bolle has vanished away I know not where. If they, or either of them, return ere Monday you shall see them.” “And if they do not return I shall see them afterwards,” replied Emlyn, with a shrug of her shoulders. “What does it matter? Fare you well till we meet at the fire, my Lord Abbot.” On the Sunday--that is, the day before the burning--the Abbot came again. “Three days ago,” he said, addressing them both, “I offered you a chance of life upon certain conditions, but, obstinate witches that you are, you refused to listen. Now I offer you the last boon in my power--not life, indeed; it is too late for that--but a merciful death. If you will give me what I seek, the executioner shall dispatch you both before the fire bites--never mind how. If not--well, as I have told you, there has been much rain, and they say the faggots are somewhat green.” Cicely paled a little--who would not, even in those cruel days?--then asked-- “And what is it that you seek, or that we can give? A confession of our guilt, to cover up your crime in the eyes of the world? If so, you shall never have it, though we burn by inches.” “Yes, I seek that, but for your own sakes, not for mine, since those who confess and repent may receive absolution. Also I seek more--the rich jewels which you have in hiding, that they may be used for the purposes of the Church.” Then it was that Cicely showed the courage of her blood. “Never, never!” she cried, turning on him with eyes ablaze. “Torture and slay me if you will, but my wealth you shall not thieve. I know not where these jewels are, but wherever they may be, there let them lie till my heirs find them, or they rot.” The Abbot’s face grew very evil. “Is that your last word, Cicely Foterell?” he asked. She bowed her head, and he repeated the question to Emlyn, who answered-- “What my mistress says, I say.” “So be it!” he exclaimed. “Doubtless you sorceresses put your trust in the devil. Well, we shall see if he will help you to-morrow.” “God will help us,” replied Cicely in a quiet voice. “Remember my words when the time comes.” Then he went. CHAPTER XII THE STAKE