“Who’s there?”
“One who desires shelter from the storm. Open, i’ God’s name!”
“And who be ye that seek shelter of Dame Margery? Know you not that men call me the white witch?”
“I care not,” exclaimed Francis impatiently. 206 “Open, woman, else I will force the door.”
There was a muttering of protest, then the bolts were drawn, and the door opened. A woman stood in the aperture. A woman, old and bent, and looking not unlike the witch she called herself. A hood of brown sat on her white hair; a brown lappet was thrown about her, and she supported herself by means of a staff. Her black eyes regarded the girl with keenness from under her shaggy brows.
“Now thou art brave, forsooth, who dares take shelter here,” she said. “There are those, and they are many, who would brave the fiercest storm rather than risk Dame Margery’s evil eye.”
“But not I,” said Francis boldly. Nevertheless she made the sign of the cross, for the age was a superstitious one and the belief in witches and witchcraft well nigh universal. “Good dame, tell me, I pray, where I may put my horse. Give us both shelter, and thou shall have this angel for thy guerdon.”
She held the gold piece out as she spoke. The woman’s fingers closed over it eagerly.
“Back of the house are the stables,” she 207 said a trifle more civilly. “There will ye find food for the beast as well as cover. But thou wilt have to be thine own groom, young sir. These old bones be racked with rheums.”
“I thank you,” answered Francis briefly. Following the direction indicated by the beldame she led her horse round the house where she found the stables in somewhat better condition than she had expected. After looking after the welfare of the animal she muttered a short prayer, and entered the dwelling with a bold front.