“He lives and is as well as a man may be after a three days’ fast in a black dungeon that is somewhat damp.  Here’s a writing on the matter for the captain of this company,” and, taking a letter from the folds of the white flag in which it had been fastened, he handed it to Bolle, who, as he could not read, passed it on to Jacob Smith.  Just then a lad brought the ale for which Jeffrey had asked, and with it a platter of cold meat and bread, on which he fell like a famished hound, drinking in great gulps and devouring the food almost without chewing it.

“By the saints, you are starved, Jeffrey,” said a yeoman who stood by.  “Come with me and shift those wet clothes of yours, or you will take harm,” and he led him off, still eating, to a tent that stood near by.

Meanwhile, Jacob, having studied the letter with bent and anxious brows, read it aloud.  It ran thus—­

“To the Captain of the King’s men, from Clement, Abbot of Blossholme.

“By what warrant I know not you besiege us here, threatening this Abbey and its Religious with fire and sword.  I am told that Cicely Foterell is your leader.  Say, then, to that escaped witch that I hold the man she calls her husband, and who is the father of her base-born child, a prisoner.  Unless this night she disperses her troop and sends me a writing signed and witnessed, promising indemnity on behalf of the King for me and those with me for all that we may have done against him and his laws, or privately against her, and freedom to go where we will without pursuit or hindrance or loss of land or chattels, know that to-morrow at the dawn we put to death Christopher Harflete, Knight, in punishment of the murders and other crimes that he has committed against us, and in proof thereof his body shall be hung from the Abbey tower.  If otherwise we will leave him unharmed here where you shall find him after we have gone.  For the rest, ask his servant, Jeffrey Stokes, whom we send to you with this letter.

“Clement, Abbot.”

Jacob finished reading and a silence fell upon all who listened.

“Let us go to some private place and consider this matter,” said Emlyn.

“Nay,” broke in Cicely, “it is I, who in my lord’s absence, hold the King’s commission and I will be heard.  Thomas Bolle, first send a man under flag to the Abbot, saying, that if aught of harm befalls Sir Christopher Harflete I’ll put every living soul within the Abbey walls to death by sword or rope, and stand answerable for it to the King.  Set it in writing, Master Smith, and send with it copy of the King’s commission for my warrant.  At once, let it be done at once.”

So they went to a cottage near by, which Bolle used as a guard-house, where this stern message was written down, copied out fair, signed by Cicely and by Bolle, as captain, with Jacob Smith for witness.  This paper, together with a copy of the King’s commissions, Cicely with her own hand gave to a bold and trusty man, charged to ask an answer, who departed, carrying the white flag and wearing a steel shirt beneath his doublet, for fear of treachery.