“Nay, Jezebel, thou shalt have fire,” said Sir Thomas. “It is more purifying than water for such as thou.”
There was a burst of laughter at the coarse jest, but Master Peasegood strode into the cottage, took a rough earthenware vessel, and, parting the crowd, filled the mug from the clear cold spring, and held it to the wretched woman’s lips.
She drank with avidity, and then pressed her thin white lips to the hand that held the vessel, while her eyes gave a grateful look at the face.
“Bless you,” she said, in a hoarse whisper, and her lips kept moving quickly.
“Quick,” cried Sir Mark; “we are wasting time,” and four of the men seized and carried the trembling creature to the stake, where a chain was hanging ready to bind her fast.
But as it happened there was the chain but no means of fastening it, and impatiently throwing it aside they bound her with a cart-rope so that she was upright, for her limbs refused their task, and she had to be held as the rope was twisted round.
“Mas’ Cobbe, Mas’ Cobbe!” cried Mother Goodhugh, in a hoarse wail.
“Nay, go not nigh to her, Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Thomas. “She will only curse thee again.”
For answer the founder, who could not tear himself from the spot, strode towards the stake.
“I cannot save thee, Mother Goodhugh,” he said, hoarsely.