ghosts--no! Also Mistress Stower
is a witch, and might lay a curse on me; and those nuns are full of
crinks and cranks, and can pray an honest soul to death."

"Come, come, my time is short. What is it you want, woman? Out with it."

"The inn there at the ford--your Lordship, will need a tenant next
month. It's a good paying house for those who know how to keep their
mouths shut and to look the other way, and through vile scandal and evil
slanderers, such as the Smith girl, my business isn't what it was. Now
if I could have it without rent for the first two years, till I had time
to work up the trade----"

The Abbot, who could bear no more of the creature, rose from his chair
and said sharply--

"I will remember. Yes, I will promise. Go now; the reverent Mother
is advised of your coming. And report to me night and morning of the
progress of the case. Why, woman, what are you doing?" for she had
suddenly slid to her knees and grasped his robes with her thick, filthy
hands.

"Absolution, holy Lordship; I ask absolution and blessing--_pax
Meggiscum_, and the rest of it."

"Absolution? There is nothing to absolve."

"Oh! yes, my Lord, there is plenty, though I am wondering who will
absolve _you_ for your half. Also there are rows of little angels that
sometimes won't let me sleep, and that's why I can't stomach ghosts. I'd
rather sup in winter on cold small ale and half-cooked pork than face
even a still-born ghost."

"Begone!" said the Abbot, in such a voice that she scrambled to her feet
and went, unblessed and unabsolved.

When the door had closed behind her he went to the window and flung it
wide, although the night was foul.

"By all the saints!" he muttered, "that beastly murderess poisons the
air. Why, I wonder, does God allow such filthy things to live? Cannot
she ply her hell-trade less grossly? Oh! Clement Maldonado, how low are
you sunk that you must use tools like these, and on such a business. And
yet there is no other way. Not for myself, but for the Church, O Lord!
The great plot thickens, and all men clamour to me, its head and spring,
for money. Give me money, and within six months Yorkshire and the North
will be up, and without a year Henry the Anti-Christ will be dead and
the Princess Mary fast upon the throne, with the Emperor and the Pope
for watchdogs. That stiff-necked Cicely must die and her babe must die,
and then I'll twist the secret of the jewels out of the witch, Emlyn--on
the rack