Anne stamped on the floor again.
“I don’t care,” she cried. “What did you promise me? Was it not that I could win the love of either.”
“Ay,” said Mother Goodhugh; “and I worked hard; but Mistress Mace Cobbe worked hard too, and had better luck.”
“Don’t mention her wretched name.”
“But I must, sweet child. How her beautiful eyes fire up and sparkle!” she said, as if to herself. “She be a white witch, and weaves powerful spells with her father’s wealth. For his money helps her to buy costly things my pittance will not touch.”
“I have given thee crowns and pounds,” cried Anne.
“All spent on thee and thy philtres,” returned Mother Goodhugh. “Then Abel Churr has been taken away through the tricks of that white witch Mace, who has forced Culverin Carr to slay him, that I might not battle against her. Ah, fair Mistress Anne, she be a potent witch.”
“Then she shall be burned,” cried Anne Beckley, savagely. “I have but to swear against her before my father, the justice, of her goings on, and she would be seized and pinioned and tortured.”
“And serve her duly,” cried the old woman, with malicious glee.
“Even as I could have thee seized, Mother Goodhugh,” cried Anne, “if I so willed.”