"The Pope is in his bag.
Monks, your day is done." Again there was tumult, a very great tumult.

In truth the scene, or rather the sounds, were strange.

The Bishop shrieking with rage upon the bench, like a hen that has been caught upon her perch at night, the black-browed Prior bellowing like a bull, the populace surging and shouting this and that, the secretary calling for candles, and when at length one was brought, making a little star of light in that huge gloom, putting his hand to his mouth and roaring-- "What of this Bridget?
Does she go free ?" The Bishop made no answer; it seemed as though he were frightened at the forces which he had let loose; but the Abbot hallooed back-- "Burn the hag with the others," and the secretary wrote it down upon his brief.
Then the guards seized the three of them to lead them away, and the frightened babe set up a thin, piercing wail, while the Bishop and his companions, preceded by one of the monks bearing the candle--it was that Ambrose who had choked Emlyn--marched in procession down the hall to gain the great door.
Ere ever they reached it the candle was dashed from the hand of Ambrose, and a fearful tumult arose in the dense darkness, for now all light had vanished.

There were screams, and sounds of fighting, and cries for help.

These died away; the hall emptied by degrees, for it seemed that none wished to stay there.