But in their home, fierce fires glared amidst the tossing torch-light; the crowd, baffled by the strength of the door, scaled the wall, broke through the lattice-work of the hall window, and streaming through room after room, roared forth, “Death to the wizard!” Amidst the sordid dresses of the men, the soiled and faded tinsel of the tymbesteres gleamed and sparkled. It was a scene the she-fiends revelled in,—dear are outrage and malice, and the excitement of turbulent passions, and the savage voices of frantic men, and the thirst of blood to those everlasting furies of a mob, under whatever name we know them, in whatever time they taint with their presence,—women in whom womanhood is blasted!
Door after door was burst open with cries of disappointed rage; at last they ascended the turret-stairs, they found a small door barred and locked. Tim’s father, a huge axe in his brawny arm, shivered the panels; the crowd rushed in, and there, seated amongst a strange and motley litter, they found the devoted Madge. The poor old woman had collected into this place, as the stronghold of the mansion, whatever portable articles seemed to her most precious, either from value or association. Sibyll’s gittern (Marmaduke’s gift) lay amidst a lumber of tools and implements; a faded robe of her dead mother’s, treasured by Madge and Sibyll both, as a relic of holy love; a few platters and cups of pewter, the pride of old Madge’s heart to keep bright and clean; odds and ends of old hangings; a battered silver brooch (a love-gift to Madge herself when she was young),—these, and suchlike scraps of finery, hoards inestimable to the household memory and affection, lay confusedly heaped around the huge grim model, before which, mute and tranquil, sat the brave old woman.
The crowd halted, and stared round in superstitious terror and dumb marvel.
The leader of the tymbesteres sprang forward.
“Where is thy master, old hag, and where the bonny maid who glamours lords, and despises us bold lasses?”
“Alack! master and the damsel have gone hours ago! I am alone in the house; what’s your will?”
“The crone looks parlous witchlike!” said Tim’s father; crossing himself, and somewhat retreating from her gray, unquiet eyes. And, indeed, poor Madge, with her wrinkled face, bony form, and high cap, corresponded far more with the vulgar notions of a dabbler in the black art than did Adam Warner, with his comely countenance and noble mien.
“So she doth, indeed, and verily,” said a hump-backed tinker; “if we were to try a dip in the horsepool yonder it could do no harm.”
“Away with her, away!” cried several voices at that humane suggestion.
“Nay, nay,” quoth the baker, “she is a douce creature after all, and hath dealt with me many years. I don’t care what becomes of the wizard,—every one knows,” he added with pride, “that I was one of the first to set fire to his house when Robin gainsayed it! but right’s right—burn the master, not the drudge!”