It was late summer, with autumn well in view upon the slope of the year. The landscape was growing russet, and none the less fair for that. And it was England—England after the blue plains of the sea and the low, coral isles. And it was country and pure air after the fetid London prison. And it was the land where they were born—it was home, seen after years away. These green fields and spreading trees—this English sky—these birds and flowers and crystal streams—these were no foes of theirs. These had never cast them out. Here as elsewhere, the great round earth had its own orthodoxy, but took scant heed of man’s.... They saw England after long absence; and for all that they were to be slain here, they could find it beautiful, and for all that they knew where ended this road, they played with the happenings upon it.
Twenty miles out from London the sheriff’s horse cast a shoe, and at the next smithy all must halt until Grey Dick was shod. The smithy stood in the pleasant shadow of an oak so great that it must have been growing when the Conqueror came over. The hot smithy fire glowed within, iron struck rhythmically against iron. Beyond the tree was a well, and all were thirsty. They had not drawn bridle for several hours. The men dismounted—the two prisoners were given leave to do likewise, even to rest upon the earth beneath the oak.
The four children of the smith sat upon a log and watched with an intensity of interest horses and men and all their movements, and the man and woman half sitting, half lying beneath the oak. The smithy dog came up to these two, snuffed around them, and then lay down at their feet. Clink! Clink! and the trees began to wave in an afternoon breeze, and the voices of the men about the well and the smithy door sounded cheerful and hardy. The two had no misliking for the bright world. They sat watching the children.... The youngest child, a yellow-haired mite of three, would make an excursion of its own from the log, past the oak, to the door. In the course of the journey it came upon a protruding root, stumbled over it and fell. Joan sprang forward and lifted it to its feet. “There, there! You’re not hurt—Look at the pretty flower you fell against!” The child decided not to cry, laughed instead. Joan’s arm curved about the sturdy small form and pressed it to her. “Ah, what a good baby!”—The child was willing to stay and play, but with suddenness found herself released, given a gentle push back toward the three upon the log. Joan took her seat again upon the turf. “It wasn’t wise to touch her. It’s strange that it should be so, but if any saw they might bring it against her when she is grown.”
She spoke without any pain for herself in her voice, but with yearning and tenderness for the child. “Now she’s there and happy! She’s got a stick to play with.”
“Joan, Joan!” said Aderhold. “There will come a day—”
The horse was shod, the well-water drunk, guard and prisoners took again the road. The smith and his man had, at the last, their curiosity satisfied. “Witches and wizards!—Nay, if I had known that—”
The road presented its stream, here full, here very thin, of autumn travel. Little pictures and the whole picture had a clear, a vivid interest. Market people went by, drovers with cattle, sturdy beggars, children, country girls and swains, carters and their carts, mounted travel of merchants or justices or churchmen or country gentlemen. The mounted travel would always, authoritatively, have its curiosity gratified. “A ward with prisoners!—Who are your prisoners, sheriff?” The second morning it was a party of young gallants who would know this. They wore feathered hats, fine riding-clothes, boots of soft leather, their hair somewhat long and curled. They were for King and Church—would all live, perhaps, to fight on that side. “Prisoners! What are your prisoners, sirrah!” Then, when they knew,—“Witch! Witch! A young witch, too! Let’s see her—Zounds! Who’s the man?... The Hawthorn two who fled! Gilbert Aderhold—Joan Heron!” Certain of these gallants had been in London and knew of the recapture. It had been common talk. The king had learned of it. “Joan Heron!—Joan Heron! Let’s see—let’s see! Grey eyes—gold hair—no, hair like bronze, pale bronze.... Would you dare to kiss a witch?”—“No!”—“Yes!”—“No!”—“Yes, I would!”—“To make the Devil jealous—that were a parlous thing!”—“Parlous or not, if she hath grey eyes and red lips—”—“Kiss her—clip her in thy arms and to-night she will come as succuba and kiss and clip thee! Then hark to thy roar, ‘Avaunt, thou hag! Will none save me from the foul fiend?’”—“Joan Heron! Rememberest the ballad, THE DEVIL AND JOAN HERON?”—“But thou’rt not called ‘Daredevil’ for naught!”—“Do you dare me?”—“Yes, yes! We dare you!”—“Kiss her hard, clip her fast—No, no. Master Sheriff! Fair play—make a ring!... Now! Now!”... “Well, thou hast courage!”... “She did not struggle,—as do honest women or those who would be thought honest!” “To-night, to-night, when thou hast put out the light, look to find her!”—“Ha, ha! ha, ha! JOAN HERON—”
They won away from those of the feathered hats. Space widened between the two cavalcades, the voices of the gallants died from the ear. The road lay bright and sunny, the morning air blew fresh and sweet. The great earth swept calm to the horizon, the sky sprang, a pure and cloudless arch. For a long way the road ran lonely of travellers other than the sheriff, his men, and the prisoners. Joan and Aderhold, riding together, talked in low tones. After a time they were passing through a forest. They loved the brown earth and the bracken, the boughs overhead, the purple distances.
“I remember this wood,” said Aderhold. “I lay and rested under these trees and wondered what was before me.... And I could not see thee.—I did not know the lovely thing that was before me.”