It was in Anne Beckley’s power to save her by a quick appeal to Sir Mark; but she hesitated, for the thought flashed across her mind that, Mother Goodhugh dead, she would carry with her many secrets, and, above all, the greatest one, of how this terrible affair had been brought about. It might have been accident; but she had her doubts.
Sir Thomas looked on in puzzled guise. He knew he ought to do or say something, but without his clerk he was generally at sea, while Master Peasegood, who might have given him good advice, had gone off, leading the stricken father to his home.
It was Gil who interfered, and none too soon.
Springing up from where he had knelt on one knee, he threw himself before the would-be executioners.
“Shame on you!” he cried; and the men stopped, short, while Mother Goodhugh struggled from them to throw herself on the earth and cling to Gil’s knees.
“Save, oh, save me!” she shrieked; “I cannot die.”
“What are you, that you interfere?” cried one of the men.
“A witch—a witch—to the flames,” cried Wat Kilby, in his harsh voice.
“Silence, old dog!” roared Gil.
“In with her, lads!” cried the first of the men, seizing Mother Goodhugh by the shoulder; but, as she shrieked with horror, the man went down from a blow given by Gil’s clenched hand, which the next moment sought his sword, to find it gone.