"So I feared," she answered. "What is the noise we hear?"
It was the noise of a crowd—hurrying feet, hoarse shouts. It came rapidly near. The mob was coming up the hill. Now I could hear distinctly "foreign witch," "Dutch devil," and other cries of a fouler kind. Unmistakably we were pursued. On the crest of the hill stood an old windmill, which might shelter us, and thither I hurried Mistress Goel. The door was padlocked, but one strong kick crashed it open. Pushing my companion inside, I took up the door, laid it across the entrance, dragged a few sacks of corn against it, and had a tolerable barricade; not a moment too soon, for the mob was upon us, with a yell of disappointed rage at sight of the obstacle in their way.
"Can you load a pistol?" I asked Mistress Goel.
"Yes," she answered.
I detached powder-horn and shot-bag from my belt, and passed them to her.
"I will throw my pistol into your lap, if I have to fire; reload it and give it to me, keeping well behind me," I ordered.
By this time the crowd had gathered in front of the mill. Luckily we were in shadow, and the moonlight was full on them. For half a minute they halted, and a murmur of talk among the leaders was the only sound. Then one of them stepped forward.
"One stride nearer, and I fire," I said quietly.
"Nobody wants to hurt you, Measter Frank," the fellow said. "Give up the witch, that's all we ask."
"There's no witch here," I answered. "There is a lady, the guest of your vicar; woe betide you if she comes to harm at your hands! But you will have to murder me before you lay finger on her."