“Friend,” he said suddenly, wiping his lips with a dainty handkerchief, “that same woman who so vilely returned my alms yesternight, what say’st thou is her name?”
Big French sat up and yawned.
“Oh!” he said, “that was Nan Swayle.”
At the sound of his voice Anny, who had been attending to the fire on the other side of the room, came forward and stood at the end of the table, looking at the pair with wide-open, serious eyes.
“Nan Swayle,” the Spaniard rolled the name round his tongue thoughtfully. “Ah, didst say she had been ducked as a witch?”
“Ay,” he said, “at the Restoration of the King, and a mirthful figure she made, Captain, her thumbs and great toes tied crossways—so,” and he chuckled at the thought of it.
Anny leant forward, her face flushed and her eyes bright. “A cruel jest, Master French, to so ill-treat a poor woman as far from being a witch as you an angel.”
Black’erchief Dick regarded her excited little form and earnest eyes with open admiration.
“Marry, Mistress,” he said, “what a friend thou art to Mother Swayle! May I ask what she has done for thee?”