From the direction of the tavern came sounds of shouting. He smiled at her. "You'd better go on before they think I've turned you into a bat."
"Henry—" she began, but she had lingered too long. The whole group rounded the turn, trotting, their faces twisted in superstitious fury. They raised their arms when they sighted the two. Each hand had a stone in it.
"She's one of them too!" screamed fat, malicious Hecla, seeing a chance to vent her envy. "They're planning something! Throw! Throw!"
Her voice was a hysterical shriek. Henry saw the stones in the air. Grasping the girl's wrist he drew her into the brush beside the path.
He stopped his flight under an ancient tree and let go her wrist.
"See," he said, "even to speak to me is dangerous."
She tossed her head and brushed the hair from her brow, her eyes scornful. "I don't care. I'm sick of them."
"You can go back. Give them some fancy tale about my hexing you, but say that you crossed two sticks or something and got away."
She looked him squarely in the face, her own composed and determined. "I'd rather stay with you."