“Mother Swayle,” she said pleadingly, “what will I say to her?”
Nan seemed to come to herself again, for she patted the girl kindly on the shoulder.
“You run back to the Ship, lass. I’ll see the ronyon,” she said.
Anny took her hand.
“You’re good to me, Mother,” she said.
Nan pulled her hand away sharply.
“Go off with you, child,” she ordered harshly, and as Anny sped over the marshes, she heard the deep voice behind her getting fainter and fainter calling—“Rum—rum—rum!”
Early on the next morning Mistress Swayle set out for Pet Salt’s boat. The sun, rising red out of the sea, tinged her black gown and flying elf-locks with a certain rustiness as she bent her head before the salt morning wind and strode down the ill-made road. She walked along with sweeping strides, a five-foot bramble stick in her hand. On either side of her stretched the gray-green, dyke-patterned saltings, while ahead gleamed fields of ripening wheat and blue vetches.
She was murmuring to herself as she went along and often paused to shake her stick at some unseen adversary.
Her cat followed her at a respectful distance, always keeping one eye on the bramble stick.