“Your errand?” I inquired, shortly, thinking I knew it as well as he.
“I have a warrant, a royal warrant, for your body,” began the constable pompously.
“I know it full well,” was my answer.
I noticed that the bodyguard, accompanying Master Putnam, looked one at the other at this. A burly red-haired farmer, who clasped his flint-lock as he would a club, whispered to the man next him:
“Mark you that, neighbor Passden? There is Satan’s work. He hath informed the Captain in advance of our coming, and of the royal warrant, which our worthy constable has not even yet removed from his jacket pocket. Saw you ever the like?”
“Hush! Not so loud,” murmured the one addressed. “Aye, ’tis fearfully marvelous. But speak not of it, or he may cast a spell of the evil on us,” and the two shrank away.
I heard the whispers, but knew not what it all meant. I looked at the constable, seeking an explanation.
“I hold a warrant,” he went on, “against you, Captain Edward Amherst, charging you with certain detestable arts called witchcraft.”
“What!” I cried. “Have you lost your senses, Master Putnam?”
“Nay, hear me out,” he protested, drawing a parchment with a red seal dangling therefrom, out of his pocket. The men closed up around me.