“And that night, at home, I slept and dreamed—and saw not thee.”
“There are glories in our lives. With every pain and sorrow counted in, we have not been unhappy.”
“No. Pain did not win. And the light was brighter yesterday than the day before, and brighter to-day than yesterday.... Look at the bird flying up!”
The third night the troop did not arrive, in time for rest, at any town or village. A heavy rain had fallen and delayed progress. They came at dark to three or four mean houses, clustered around one of better proportions, an inn by the sign just made out through the dusk and the autumn mists. There was not much to eat, but it might be made to do—straw could be shaken down—there was a great fireplace where blazing warmth might be had.... To Joan and Aderhold, accustomed to the sun, good was this warmth! There was one great stone-flagged room, large as a baron’s hall. When the dozen men of their guard disposed themselves, there was yet space where the ruddy glow might reach them, dry their clothing wet with the rain, warm their bodies. Where there was not overmuch for any, their portion of supper was small, indeed, but it sufficed. When all would sleep, lying about the fire upon the straw which the inn’s servitors brought in, the two were thrust to a corner at the far end of the place, farthest from the door. A watch was set—a stanch man relieved each two hours by another. The sheriff meant no slipping of the wizard and witch out of his fingers. But sleeping time was not yet come. The two sat to one side, watched, but no more closely than was thought necessary.
Beside the sheriff and his men there were the host and hostess, three or four uncouth serving-men and maids, and one other traveller, belated like the rest. This was a gentle-faced old man, the parson, it was learned, of a parish a dozen miles away.... The night before, in a town of fair size, the names of his prisoners becoming known, the sheriff had had trouble to rescue them from the mob that gathered. This day, therefore, he would keep secret the full heinousness of the pair—along the way and here it was said only that they were a man and woman accused of witchcraft and apostasy, being transferred from one gaol to another.
Under this description the inn folk looked aside at them with great curiosity and fear. At supper time none could be found willing to carry to them from the kitchen their bit of coarse bread and pitcher of water. The host was busied elsewhere; the hostess put down her foot that she would not; the men and maids laughed vacantly and stared, but would not budge in that direction. The old man, the parson, who chanced to be by, uttered a word of gentle chiding, then, as all still hung back, himself picked up the bread and water and carried them to the two. They thanked him. He stood looking at them with a gentle, pained face. Called to supper at the long table where the sheriff and his men were noisily taking places, he went away. But presently, his own frugal meal quickly made, he came back. Theirs, too, was made. They were seated on the stone flooring, shoulder against the wall, hand touching hand. They had no look of wicked folk.
The old man found a stool, brought it and sat down beside them. “You look worn and tired. The roads have been bad to-day.”
He spoke to Joan. “Bad here and there,” she said. “We are a little tired.”
The old man sat looking from one to the other. Then he spoke with simplicity. “Is it true that you are apostates from religion?”