Torches were lit, and showed a strange scene.
The Bishop, the Abbot, and the foreign Prior lay here and there, buffeted, bleeding, their robes torn off them, so that they were almost naked, while by the Bishop was his crozier, broken in two, apparently across his own head.

Worse of all, the monk Ambrose leaned against a pillar; his feet seemed to go forward but his face looked backward, for his neck was twisted like that of a Michaelmas goose.
The Bishop looked about him and felt his hurts; then he called to his people-- "Bring me my cloak and a horse, for I have had enough of Blossholme and its wizardries.

Settle your own matters henceforth, Abbot Maldon, for in them I find no luck," and he glanced at his broken staff.
Thus ended the great trial of the Blossholme witches.
Cicely had sunk to sleep at last, and Emlyn watched her, for, since there was nowhere else to put them, they were back in their own room, but guarded by armed men, lest they should escape.

Of this, as Emlyn knew well, there was little chance, for even if they were once outside the Priory walls, how could they get away without friends to help, or food to eat, or horses to carry them?
They would be run down within a mile.

Moreover, there was the child, which Cicely would never leave, and, after all she had undergone, she herself was not fit to travel.
Therefore it was that Emlyn sat sleepless, full of bitter wrath and fear, for she could see no hope.