“I will give you these shillings,” he said, “if you will tie this tightly round my wrists, and promise, whatever happens, never to tell a soul you have done it. Indeed, it will probably be the worse for you if you do tell.”
“I will not take your money,” she replied. “To tell you the truth I have no use for it. But I will tie the knot you bid me tie. It is thus with me; the knots with which men charge me to bind them, I can by no means refuse to fasten, but I cannot undo them.”
“Tie this knot,” he said, with a faint piteous laugh. “And let it remain tied till I ask you to undo it. But first, since you do not want it——”
He flung the silver into the canal.
“Now take my thanks for what you are going to do for me, since you’ll take nothing else. Here’s the scarf.”
She took it. He crossed his wrists, and held them out. She tied the scarf loosely, once.
“I am pleased to do you this service,” she said kindly, in her solemn perfect speech, that seemed unsuited to her poverty and her humble trade. “Chiefly I am pleased because of the honour which is mine, that I should take the place of the dweller in that grey small house on the hill yonder. For, I suppose, were she here, you would beg her, rather than me, to tie this knot.”
His crossed wrists fell apart; the silk scarf fluttered to the ground.
“My God! No!” he said, shuddering. “What do you mean? Who are you?”
“The Willow-weaver.”