“The Lord be thanked you were not here this day, Roger Hall!” was Tabitha’s strange greeting.
“What hath happed?” demanded Roger, stopping his horse.
“What hath happed is that Staplehurst is swept nigh clean of decent folks. Sheriffs been here—leastwise his man, Jeremy Green—and took off a good dozen of Gospellers.”
“Tom—Christie?” fell tremulously from Roger’s lips.
“Neither of them. I looked to them, and old Jeremy knows me. I heard tell of their coming, and I had matters in readiness to receive them. I reckon Jerry had an inkling of that red-hot poker and the copper of boiling water I’d prepared for his comfort; any way, he passed our house by, and at yours he did but ask if you were at home, and backed out, as pleasant as you please, when Nell made answer ‘Nay.’”
“Then whom have they taken?”
“Mine hostess of the White Hart gat the first served. Then they went after Nichol White, and Nichol Pardue.”
“Pardue!” exclaimed Roger.
“Ay, Nichol: did not touch Collet. But they took Emmet Wilson, and Fishwick, butcher, and poor Sens Bradbridge, of all simple folks.”
“And what became of her poor little maids?” asked Roger pityingly.