“Why avoid it? We have lost our way once,” said Mademoiselle.
“We fear trouble. News of our coming is known,” I explained.
“Do you mean about the officer who tried to stop us last night?”
“No—that you are suspected of witchcraft.”
She laughed. “I have nothing to fear in Poabja. I will find means to charm their anger into friendship;” and she settled the question of route by shaking her reins and cantering off toward the straggling little place.
The approach lay up a long, winding hill, steep in places, and as we rode up it the people came out from the houses to gaze at us. Languid curiosity gave way to close interest, and this in turn quickened into some excitement. Men and women walked up the hill abreast of us and some few ran on ahead.
Near the top of the hill stood an inn outside which some half dozen saddle horses were hitched; and when the riders came hurrying out I was scarcely surprised to see Petrov among them talking and gesticulating freely to his companions.
Men began to call then one to the other; the calls were caught up on many sides, at first intermittently but swelling gradually, as the crowd increased, into a coherent cry which I recognised with deep misgivings.
“The Witch! The Witch! The Witch!”
I regretted that we had taken the risk; but Mademoiselle only smiled even when the cries grew louder and more angry and threatening, and hands were raised in imprecations and revilings.