Lastly, these hideous queries being exhausted, Cicely was asked if she had anything to say.
"Somewhat," she answered; "but I am weary, and must be brief.

I am no witch; I do not know what it means.

The Abbot of Blossholme, who sits as my judge, is my grievous enemy.

He claimed my father's lands--which lands I believe he now holds--and cruelly murdered my said father by King's Grave Mount in the forest as he was riding to London to make complaint of him and reveal his treachery to his Grace the King and his Council----" "It is a lie, witch," broke in the Abbot, but, taking no heed, Cicely went on-- "Afterwards he and his hired soldiers attacked the house of my husband, Sir Christopher Harflete, and burnt it, slaying, or striving to slay--I know not which--my said husband, who has vanished away.

Then he imprisoned me and my servant, Emlyn Stower, in this Nunnery, and strove to force me to sign papers conveying all my own and my child's property to him.