Though he was in such haste a great curiosity entered into him to know whence she drew her strength, which even then he tried to satisfy.
"Are you mad or drugged, Cicely Foterell ?" he asked.

"Do you not know how fire will feel when it eats up that delicate flesh of yours ?" "I do not know and I shall never know," she answered quietly.
"Do you mean that you will die before it touches you, building on some promise of your master, Satan ?" "Yes, I shall die before the fire touches me; but not here and now, and I build upon a promise from the Master of us all in heaven." He laughed, a shrill, nervous laugh, and called out loud to the people around-- "This witch says that she will not burn, for Heaven has promised it to her.

Do you not, Witch ?" "Yes, I say so; bear witness to my words, good people all," replied Cicely in clear and ringing tones.
"Well, we'll see," shouted the Abbot.

"Man, bring flame, and let Heaven--or hell--help her if it can!" The cook-executioner blew at his brands, but he was nervous, or clumsy, and a minute or more went by before they flamed.

At length one was fit for the task, and unwillingly enough he stooped to lift it up.
Then it was that in the midst of the intense silence, for of all that multitude none seemed even to breathe, and old Bridget, who had fainted, cried no more, a bull's voice was heard beyond the brow of the hill, roaring-- "_In the King's name, stay! In the King's name, stay!_" All turned to look, and there between the trees appeared a white horse, its sides streaked with blood, that staggered rather than galloped towards them, and on the horse a huge, red-bearded man, clad in mail and holding in his hand a woodman's axe.
"Fire the faggots!" shouted the Abbot, but the cook, who was not by nature brave, had already let fall his torch, which went out on the damp ground.
By now the horse was rushing through them, treading them under foot.
With great, convulsive bounds it reached the ring and, as the rider leapt from its back, rolled over and lay there panting, for its strength was done.
"It is Thomas Bolle!" exclaimed a voice, while the Abbot cried again-- "Fire the faggots! Fire the faggots!" and a soldier ran to fetch another brand.
But Thomas was before him.