“What are you feared of when I am with you, sweetheart?” he asked.
The girl shivered slightly.
“They say,” she began hesitatingly, “that Pet Salt is a witch.”
Hal’s face became grave.
“Ay,” he said, “they do say so, but, Lord,” and he smiled, “they said the same of Nan Swayle.”
“Ah! but that’s a lie,” said the girl hotly.
Hal laughed.
“Ay,” he said, “and maybe so is the tale of Pet Salt. Anyway, thy grandsire seems to thrive beneath her care, be she witch or no. Fie, Anny, for shame,” he added, “you would not haste back yet. Master French will not thank us if we get in so soon, stopping his love-talk with Mistress Sue.”
Anny wrapped her shawl a little closer about her head and shoulders, and slipped her arm through the boy’s, and they walked on for a while without speaking.
About three hundred yards from the old hull Anny stopped.