“Yes, a bitter, cruel enemy,” she cried, flinching from him. Then, with a malignant grin, she added, “But thou hast had to suffer too, Master Cobbe, and to know what it is to gnaw thy heart with pain.”
“Yes, yes, woman, I know all that,” said the founder, hastily; “but let us not talk of the by-gone, but of the future.”
“What is my future to thee, Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe?” cried the old woman, suspiciously. “Go thy ways, and let me go mine.”
“I came to tell thee that there is danger for thee, Mother Goodhugh. They say that thou’rt a witch, and I came to bid thee go hence to some place where thou art not known.”
“Who will harm me?” cried the old woman.
“Maybe Sir Thomas will have thee put in prison.”
“She daren’t do it—she daren’t do it,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “I defy her—I defy her.”
“The law dare do a good deal, Mother Goodhugh,” said the founder, sadly. “But take my advice: go from hence. I have ready for thee twenty gold pounds; they will keep thee for some time, and when they are gone I will give thee more. But go, and go at once, before it is too late.”
The old woman’s fingers were held out crooked and trembling to grasp the money, her eyes twinkling with eagerness; but ere the founder could place the coins therein she seemed to make a tremendous effort over herself, and snatched back her hands.
“Nay,” she cried, “I will not go. Thou for one would’st get rid of me, and Mistress Anne hath sent thee, but I’ll not be baulked of my revenge.”