heard this pompous speech the rage in Maldon's face was
replaced by fear, for he knew of this Doctor Legh and his mission, and
understood what Thomas Bolle had meant by his cry of, "In the King's
name!"

CHAPTER XIII

THE MESSENGER

"Who makes all this tumult?" shouted the Commissioner. "Why do I see
blood and wounds and dead men? And how were you about to handle these
women, one of whom by her mien is of no low degree?" and he stared at
Cicely.

"The tumult," answered the Abbot, "was caused by yonder fool, Thomas
Bolle, a lay-brother of my monastery, who rushed among us armed and
shouting 'In the King's name, stay.'"

"Then why did you not stay, Sir Abbot? Is the King's name one to be
mocked at? Know that I sent on the man."

"He had no warrant, Sir Commissioner, unless his bull's voice and great
axe are a warrant, and I did not stay because we were doing justice upon
the three foulest witches in the realm."

"Doing justice? Whose justice and what justice? Say, had you a warrant
for your justice? If so, show it me."

"These witches have been condemned by a Court Ecclesiastic, the judges
being a bishop, a prior and myself, and in pursuance of that judgment
were about to suffer for their sins by fire," replied Maldon.

"A Court Ecclesiastic!" roared Dr. Legh. "Can Courts Ecclesiastic, then,
toast free English folk to death? If you would not stand your trial for
attempted murder, show me your warrant signed by his Grace the King,
or by his Justices of Assize. What! You do not answer. Have you none? I
thought as much. Oho, Clement Maldon, you hang-faced Spanish dog, learn
that eyes have been on you for long, and now it seems that you would
usurp the King's prerogative besides----" and he checked himself, then
went on, "Seize that priest, and keep him fast while I make inquiry of
this business."

Now some of the Commissioner's guard surrounded Maldon, nor did his own
men venture to interfere with them, for they had enough of fighting and
were frightened by this talk about the King's warrant.

Then the Commissioner turned to Cicely, and said--

"You are Sir John Foterell's only child, are you not, who allege
yourself to be wife to Sir Christopher Harflete, or so says yonder
Prioress? Now, what was about to happen to you, and why?"

"Sir," answered Cicely, "I and my waiting-woman and the old sister,
Bridget, were condemned to die by fire at those stakes upon a charge
of sorcery. Although it is true," she