“If that was a boy of mine, exposed to the snares of—of—a girl like that, Mistress Bonyton, I should go and call him in—a wise woman looketh well to the ways of her household.”
For the first time Mistress Bonyton withdrew her eyes, and mechanically pursued her knitting, and she answered, with a somewhat sorrowful smile:
“If you had my son John to deal with, you would most likely have a good time calling.”
“He is of no earthly use in the world, while that girl is about. I shall be glad when the vessel is ready to go.” This from Perseverance.
“If I had my way, he shouldn’t go at all, to fight agin’ the parliament,” was Nancy’s response.
“Never you mind, gals; there is more than one way to kill a cat.”
And, as Mistress Bonyton said this, the click of her knitting-needles was like so many sharp stabs.
“Oh, yes, mother, but they are long a-dying,” said Perseverance, tying a double knot in her thread, and digging her needle into her work.
Dame Higgins had been steadily tying the mesh after mesh of her net, drawing out the thread with a twang, and she now laid her hands in her lap, and looking Mistress Bonyton straight in the eye, said slowly:
“There will be no good come to this land, this church planted in the wilderness, till the heathen are rooted out; root and branch must be destroyed, and all that deal with, ‘wizards that peep’—eh—and enchanters—eh—and witches—ah—and dealers in familiar spirits—eh—shall be cut off and wholly destroyed—eh—ye shall show them no mercy—eh.”