A magpie went ducking across the road, and Hilarius crossed himself fearfully.
“Let us make haste,” cried the Friar when they told him; and so at full pace they came to Bungay town.
The place looked empty and deserted, but from the distance came the roar and hum of an angry crowd.
“The people are abroad,” said Martin, and his face was very grave, “no doubt some knight is here, and there is a bear-baiting on the common. Prithee, where is thy mother’s dwelling, good Father, and I will go and ask news of her?”
“’Tis a lonely hovel by the waterside not far from the Cattle Gate; Goody Wooten thou shalt ask for.”
Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they stood fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and straining to make his ears do a double service.
Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar’s business as the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was full of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the crowd, saw him throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point to the Friar. Then he fell to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far off to catch what was said.
“See there, ’tis her son,” Martin was saying vehemently; “yon holy friar hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads it otherwise; yea, and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle with the Evil One for his mother’s soul—and now, and now—”
The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old woman lay on the ground by the river’s edge; a bundle of filthy water-logged rags crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey hair smeared with filth and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless huddle; her right thumb tied to her left toe and so across: there was a rope about her middle, but in their hot haste they had not stayed to strip her.
Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful crowd: