Here the third victim was waiting to join them, poor, old, half-witted Bridget, clad in a kind of sheet, for her habit had been stripped off.

She was wild-eyed and her grey locks hung loose about her shoulders, as she shook her ancient head and screamed prayers for mercy.

Cicely shivered at the sight of her, which indeed was dreadful.
"Peace, good Bridget," she said as they passed, "being innocent, what have you to fear ?" "The fire, the fire!" cried the poor creature.

"I dread the fire." Then they were led to their place in the procession and saw no more of Bridget for a while, although they could not escape the sound of her lamentations behind them.
It was a great procession.

First went the monks and choristers, singing a melancholy Latin dirge.