“Grandam, what will I do? What will I do?” she sobbed.
Pet kicked her away hastily and spat on the deck.
“Get up and behave yerself, Anny Farran,” she said sharply. “What should ye do but marry the handsome Spaniard and sail off with him? Such a chance don’t come to every dirty serving-maid.”
Anny sprang to her feet.
“I’ll not wed him,” she said, her voice clear and loud. “I’ll not if he kills me.”
Pet Salt’s smile vanished and a crafty, anxious light crept into her watery eyes. She crossed over to the girl with a peculiar smooth movement and stood very close to her, her villainous face very near to the young girl’s frightened one.
“Anny Farran,” she said, her harsh, high voice growing more and more uncanny, “there be some as say Pet Salt is a witch.”
Anny started involuntarily. The light was fading, and faint shadows were creeping fast all round the boat.
Away over the fields a corn-crake called plaintively once or twice and then, quite near, an owl screamed loudly.