Flemild’s conscience pricked her a little as she replied, “Of course they are. Don’t you know they crucified our Lord?”
“What, these Jews?” asked Derette with open eyes. “Old Aaron, and Benefei at the corner, and Jurnet the fletcher, and—O Flemild, not, surely not Countess and Regina? They look so nice and kind, I’m sure they never could do any thing like that!”
“No, child, not these people, of course. Why, it was hundreds and hundreds of years ago. But these are just as bad—every one of them. They would do it again if they had the chance.”
“Countess wouldn’t, I know,” persisted the little one. “Why, Flemild, only last week, she caught pussy for me, and gave her to me, and she smiled so prettily. I liked her. If Mother hadn’t said I must never speak to any of them, I’d have had a chat with her; but of course I couldn’t, then, so I only smiled back again, and nodded for ‘thank you.’”
“Derette!” There was genuine terror in the tone of the elder sister. “Don’t you know those people are all wicked witches? Regular black witches, in league with the Devil. There isn’t one of them would not cast a spell on you as soon as look at you.”
“What would it do to me?” inquired the startled child.
“What wouldn’t it do? you had better ask. Make you into a horrid black snake, or a pig, or something you would not like to be, I can tell you.”
“I shouldn’t quite like to be a black snake,” said Derette, after a minute’s pause for reflection. “But I don’t think I should much mind being a pig. Little, tiny pigs are rather pretty things; and when they lie and grunt, they look very comfortable.”
“Silly child!—you’d have no soul to be saved!”
“Shouldn’t I? But, Flemild, I don’t quite see—if I were the pig—would that be me or the pig?”