“Eh, but you’ll never find grass grow upon her grave, lass. It will always be black and scathed like.”
“Nay, they’ll never bury her in no grave. She’ll be scattered in dust and ashes to the four winds o’ heaven.”
“Or the other place,” said one of the women, sententiously, and then they all watched the preparations.
“Hush! Look!” cried the young mother in an excited whisper; and a strange murmur ran through the crowd as, at a sign from Sir Thomas, whose florid face was blanched, and blotched with livid patches, a man ran into the cottage with a rough torch.
Master Peasegood saw that the end had come, and, pressing against the pile of faggots which reached up round the victim’s neck, he reached over one hand and touched her cheek.
“Courage, poor soul!” he cried earnestly. “Pray with me for mercy in that other land.”
The wretched woman seemed to be brought back by the parson’s voice, and she stared at him in a curiously dazed manner, her lips moving at last in a whisper that could not be heard.
“Pray with me, my poor soul—let us pray,” cried Master Peasegood eagerly.
“No,” she said sharply. “It be too late. I want to do some good before I die.”
“And it is too late for that,” said Master Peasegood to himself, as the excited murmur of the crowd went on.