“Nay, the shawl, take the shawl for the babe.”
“I can carry it ’neath my smock, and ’twill come to no harm, thou wouldst die without it.”
She starts up, imprints one fervent kiss upon the babe ere it leaves her; alas, it is the last feeble outcome of strength.
Giles runs along the road, as fast as the ground, heavy with snow, and the wind, will permit him; he reaches the house of Stephen Ringwood, the deputy keeper; it is now Curfew time, and the honest woodman is just putting out his fire to go to bed.
“Stephen, Stephen,” shouts Giles, as he knocks at the door.
A loud and heavy barking from the throats of deep-chested dogs.
“Who is there?”
“Thy old crony, Giles Hodge; open to me at once.”
The door opens. “What Saint has sent thee here! and a babe too?”