ightened horse scented its
Blossholme stable, clinging grimly to her unaccustomed seat, and crying
as she sped--

"For God's love, stop this mad beast!"

Bolle caught it by the bridle and threw it to its haunches so that,
its rider speeding on, flew over its head on to the broad breast of the
yeoman who had watched the child, and there rested thankfully. For, as
Mother Matilda said afterwards with her gentle smile, never before did
she know what comfort there was to be found in man.

When at length she loosed her arms from about his neck the yeoman stood
her on her feet, saying that this was worse than the baby, and her
wandering eyes fell upon Cicely.

"So I am in time! Oh! never more will I revile that horse," she
exclaimed, and sinking to her knees then and there she gasped out some
prayer of thankfulness. Meanwhile, those who followed her had reined
up in front, and the Abbot's soldiers with the accompanying crowd had
halted behind, not knowing what to make of these strangers, so that
Bolle and his party with the women were now between the two.

From among the new-comers rode out a fat, coarse man, with a pompous
air as of one who is accustomed to be obeyed, who inquired in a laboured
voice, for he was breathless from hard riding, what all this turmoil
meant.

"Ask the Abbot of Blossholme," said some one, "for it is his work."

"Abbot of Blossholme? That's the man I want," puffed the fat stranger.
"Appear, Abbot of Blossholme, and give account of these doings. And you
fellows," he added to his escort, "range up and be ready, lest this said
priest should prove contumacious."

Now the Abbot stepped forward with some of his monks and, looking the
horseman up and down, said--

"Who may it be that demands account so roughly of a consecrated Abbot?"

"A consecrated Abbot? A consecrated peacock, a tumultuous, turbulent,
traitorous priest, a Spanish rogue ruffler who, I am told, keeps about
him a band of bloody mercenaries to break the King's peace and slay
loyal English folk. Well, consecrated Abbot, I'll tell you who I am. I
am Thomas Legh, his Grace's Visitor and Royal Commissioner to inspect
the Houses called religious, and I am come hither upon complaint made by
yonder Prioress of Blossholme Nunnery, as to your dealings with
certain of his Highness's subjects whom, she says, you have accused of
witchcraft for purposes of revenge and unlawful gain. That is who I am,
my fine fowl of an Abbot."

Now when he