“By Christ’s Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought,” he said.
“Nay,” said one of the bystanders, “but it was fair judgment, Minstrel. For years she hath worked her spells and black arts in this place, ay, and cattle have perished and women gone barren through her means. Near two days agone a child was lost and seen last near her door, ay, and never seen again. When we came to question her she cursed at us for meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and spit, and swear she knew naught of the misbegotten brat.”
“Maybe ’twas true eno’,” said Martin. “I hate these rough-cast witch-findings—’tis not a matter for man’s judgment, unless ’tis sworn and proven in court before the Justiciary.”
“Nay,” joined in an old man, “what need of a Justice when God speaks? We did but thole her to the river to see if she would sink or swim. The witch did swim, as all can testify, her Master helping her; and seeing that, we drew her under—ay, and see her now as she lies, and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on his own?”
Martin wrung his hands.
“For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say no word of this to yon holy man.”
Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and bore her to her wretched bed.
The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor place and its dead dishonoured mistress.
Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius and the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept common. March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the dry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius shivered, and the Friar started nervously when Martin spoke.
“Friar,” he said, “God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art too late to speed thy mother’s soul; she passed to-day, and lies even now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands.”