“No, not to do—to say something, Master—and—and it seems all gone. Yes; I know,” she cried, striving hard to hold up her head, which fell back again heavily upon her chest. “No, I can’t remember. Yes, Mace, come here, child. I’ll give thee to thy father now.”
“Poor soul, she wanders,” muttered Master Peasegood. Then aloud:—“Try to pray with me, mother. Try—one word.”
“Yes, I was not a witch, master. It was only—Where be Jeremiah Cobbe? Here, let me tell him—quick.”
“He cannot reach thee now, poor soul. Pray with me quickly. Oh, Father have—”
“Mace. Here—quick, child, come. Poor sweet—I had to fight hard to hate thee. My head—my head.”
Master Peasegood stretched out a hand to try and sustain the palsied head.
“Stand back, sir,” cried Sir Mark fiercely; and he laid his hand upon Master Peasegood’s arm, but the stout cleric shook him off.
“Back yourself, sir,” he cried, “an’ you would not singe your gaudy plumes. My place is here.”
Sir Mark stood back, for at that moment the smoking, flaming torch was thrust into the brushwood, which began to crackle and burn furiously, while a pillar of smoke rose high in the still autumn air, in company with a shriek from the women, some of whom turned away, while others covered their faces with their hands.
The torch was thrust into the faggots again and again, four times in all, and at each thrust there was a burst of flame and a cloud of smoke; but Master Peasegood stirred not, though the flames licked his long black garb.