“Yes, indeed,” she answered, “if all I hear is true. They say that my father is killed by cruel men--I know not for certain why or by whom--and that the Abbot of Blossholme comes to claim me as his ward and immure me in Blossholme Priory, whither I would not go. I have fled here to escape him, having no other refuge, though you may think ill of me for this deed.” “Not I, my child. I should not speak against yonder Abbot, for he is my superior in the Church, though, mind you, I owe him no allegiance, since this benefice is not in his gift, nor am I a Benedictine. Therefore I will tell you the truth. I hold the man not honest. All is provender that comes to his maw; moreover, he is no Englishman, but a Spaniard, one sent here to work against the welfare of this realm; to suck its wealth, stir up rebellion, and make report of all that passes in it, for the benefit of England’s enemies.” “Yet he has friends at Court, or so said my father.” “Aye, aye, such folks have ever friends--their money buys them; though mayhap an ill day is at hand for him and his likes. Well, your poor father is gone, God knows how, though I thought for long that would be his end, who ever spoke his mind, or more; and you with your wealth are the morsel that tempts Maldon’s appetite. And now what is to be done? This is a hard case. Would you refuge in some other Nunnery?” “Nay,” answered Cicely, glancing sideways at her lover. “Then what’s to be done?” “Oh! I know not,” she said, bursting into a fit of weeping. “How can I tell you, who am mazed with grief and doubt? I had but a single friend--my father, though at times he was a rough one. Yet he loved me in his way, and I have obeyed his last counsel;” and, all her courage gone, she sank into a chair and rocked herself to and fro, her head resting on her hands. “That is not true,” said Emlyn in her bold voice. “Am I who suckled you no friend, and is Father Necton here no friend, and is Sir Christopher no friend? Well, if you have lost your judgment, I have kept mine, and here it is. Yonder, not two bowshots away, stands a church, and before me I see a priest and a pair who would serve for bride and bridegroom. Also we can rake up witnesses and a cup of wine to drink your health; and after that let the Abbot of Blossholme do his worst. What say you, Sir Christopher?” “You know my mind, Nurse Emlyn; but what says Cicely? Oh! Cicely, what say _you_?” and he bent over her. She raised herself, still weeping, and, throwing her arms about his neck, laid her head upon his shoulder. “I think it is the will of God,” she whispered, “and why should I fight against it, who am His servant?--and yours, Chris.” “And now, Father, what say you?” asked Emlyn, pointing to the pair.