One of them came and listened to Hereward’s breathing, and put her hand upon his chest. His hair stood on end; a cold sweat came over him. But he snored more loudly than ever.
The two old crones went out satisfied. Then Hereward rose, and glided after them.
They went down a meadow to a little well, which Hereward had marked as he rode thither, hung round with bits of rag and flowers, as similar “holy wells” are decorated in Ireland to this day.
He hid behind a hedge, and watched them stooping over the well, mumbling he knew not what of cantrips.
Then there was silence, and a tinkling sound as of water.
“Once—twice—thrice,” counted the witches. Nine times he counted the tinkling sound.
“The ninth day,—the ninth day, and the king shall take Ely,” said one in a cracked scream, rising, and shaking her fist toward the isle.
Hereward was more than half-minded to have put his dagger—the only weapon which he had—into the two old beldames on the spot. But the fear of an outcry kept him still. He had found out already so much, that he was determined to find out more. So to-morrow he would go up to the court itself, and take what luck sent.
He slipt back to the cabin and lay down again; and as soon as he had seen the two old crones safe asleep, fell asleep himself, and was so tired that he lay till the sun was high.
“Get up!” screamed the old dame at last, kicking him, “or I shall make you give me another crock for a double night’s rest.”