“Call off your dogs!” cried Gervaise. “We are seamen ashore, making from the port to the town of ——. They told us there was a village hereabouts, and we kept on walking after night, thinking to come to it. But we think it’s bewitched and walks as we walk. Call your dogs off! We’re harmless men, used to the sea and crossing a strange country. Put us right, friend, and thank you kindly!”
“What have you done to Holdfast? He’s frighted and bleeding.”
“He pulled one of us down and nothing else served to make him loosen grip. ’Twill heal and no harm done!”
But a controversy gathered in the eyes of the miller’s man. “That dog’s worth all the ’gyptians and vagrants and seamen between here and London town! If you think you’re going round murdering dogs—”
“I think,” said Gervaise, “that I’ve in my pouch a crown piece which I got of a gentleman for a parrokeet and an Indian pipe. Let’s see if ’t won’t salve that muzzle.” He drew it forth and turned it to and fro in the moonlight. “Ask the dog. Hark’ee! He says, ‘Take it, and let harmless sailor folk pass!’” He slid it into the peasant’s hand, who stood looking down upon it with a dawning grin. “Cross this bridge,” asked Gervaise, “and we’ll be in the path to the village?”
“Aye, aye,” answered the fellow. “If you be harmful folk, let them find it out there!—Be you sure this piece is good? You ben’t coiners or passers?”
“We ben’t,” said Gervaise. “The piece is as good as the new breeches it will buy.”
They recrossed the bridge, stepping from it into the wood already traversed. The boy’s shrill voice came to them from across the stream. “Father, father! They’re four, and ’twas four the man told us broke gaol! They ben’t sailors—they be the witches!” His voice took a bewildered tone. “Only one of them was a woman—and they’re going toward the town—”
“What I be going to do,” answered the man, “is to go up t’ the house and waken miller—”