Disappointed of even this small crumb of solace, they crept at last under a hedge which in the total darkness was the best protection they could find. And grateful were they for it. At least they were saved from the wind and rain. But fatigue galled them in every bone and they were most bitterly hungry.
They were too miserable to think of sleep. For the sake of warmth they lay very close together, but little enough there was of it that crept into their veins. But never for a moment did their courage fail. They were sustained with a sense of miraculous deliverance from infinite perils. In body they were fainting, but in ardor of spirit they were unconquered still. God who had given them so much would continue to hold them in His care.
Almost as if in answer to their faith they saw suddenly a light quite near. It seemed to be no more than a couple of fields away. Yet again, tortured by hope, they painfully gathered their weariness and dragged their worn-out bodies toward this fitful and unexpected beacon. Alas! the two fields became four and yet the light seemed to be no nearer. But once afoot in its quest, they stumbled on miserably through the driving rain, in the teeth of the icy wind, over wet furrows and through close-set hedges. On and on they stumbled, till at last a moment came when they were like to fall in sheer fatigue. But Providence was with them still. For in this last dire extremity they were rewarded by the sight of that which they had come so far to find.
CHAPTER XII
THE light proved to be a fire which had been made by a band of gypsies in a corner of a field. As Gervase and Anne approached, hope revived them again, since a most exquisite scent of food began to pervade their nostrils. Suspended above the fire was an enormous cauldron from which this most delicious savor proceeded.
Gervase staggered toward a very ancient crone who was stirring the contents of the cauldron with a long-handled iron spoon. “For love of God, good mother,” he said, “give us leave to lie by your fire a bit. And if we may have a share of your supper, by my soul we will remember you in our prayers.”
The old woman looked at them both very doubtfully. “Who be ye?” she asked suspiciously. “Whence come ye?”
“That I cannot tell you, mother,” said Gervase, and his tone was pleading hard. “But we are a-cold and we are famishing. Do but grant us this and you shall never have cause to rue your kindness.”
“Ye have the trick of fair speaking at any rate,” said the crone. “I like the sound of your voice, young chal. Yes, you shall eat and lie by the fire a bit.”
The contents of the pot proved to be not less delectable than the smell that came out of it. The crone made free use of the large iron spoon and gave Gervase and Anne each a huge platterful. They did not inquire of what the savory mess consisted. It was enough that it was good.