Note 5. Diceto makes this barbarity a part of the sentence passed on the Germans. Newbury mentions it only as inflicted.
Chapter Eight.
In the White Witch’s Hut.
“But all my years have seemed so long;
And toil like mine is wondrous dreary;
And every body thinks me strong:
And I’m aweary.”
M.A. Chaplin.
“Heigh-Ho! It’s a weary life, Gib—a weary life!”
The words came from an old woman, and were addressed to a cat. Neither of them was an attractive-looking object. The old woman was very old, having a face all over minute wrinkles, a pair of red eyes much sunken, and the semblance of a beard under her chin. The cat, a dark tabby, looked as if he had been in the wars, and had played his part valiantly. His coat, however, was less dilapidated than the old woman’s garments, which seemed to be composed mainly of disconnected rags of all colours and shapes. She sat on a three-legged stool, beside a tiny hearth, on which burned a small fire of sticks.
“Nobody cares for us, Gib: nobody! They call me a witch—the saints know why, save that I am old and poor. I never did hurt to any, and I’ve given good herb medicines to the women about; and if I do mutter a few outlandish words over them, what harm does it do? They mean nothing; and they make the foolish girls fancy I know something more than they do, and so I get a silver penny here, or a handful of eggs there, and we make shift to live.”
She spoke aloud, though in a low voice, as those often do who live alone; and the cat rose and rubbed himself against her, with a soft “Me-ew!”