He stepped quickly after her; but the door was already barred; and when he knocked and called to her, the hoarse croak of the raven was the sole reply. He rapped more loudly,—still the same voice of ill omen replied; but as he persisted, and said words to re-assure her, the door was slowly opened, and the withered tenant of the pit appeared.
“Is it you, young master?” said Margery; “and are you alone, and is there no hunter with you?”
“There is no one with me,” he replied: “the hunters have gone over the river.”
“That’s well, that’s well, master: a hunting day, if the game takes this way, is ever an ill day with me. They that be cowards alone, are bold in merry company; and I have had a whip on my old shoulders, and the dogs hounded on me before now, if any thing crossed their sport. Three years ago, last fall, when his best hound, Bevis, was killed in the hollow yonder, nothing would serve the turn of Sir Charles but to float my poor old carcass across the river, and to weigh me against the church Bible! But he hath had many a sleepless night for that; and bold as he looks by day, the ticking of a death-watch will keep him shivering in his bed.”
“What do you mean, Margery? The folk may well think you a witch for words such as these.”
“Why, I mean,” said the old woman wilfully and spitefully, “that I never wished ill to any one, but ill came upon ’em.”
“Had I thought this of you yesterday, I should have been slow to ask any one to give you house room; but you are God’s creature, and have been crossed with ill usage; and when you find yourself beneath the roof of a Christian, safe from all enemies, your heart will melt, and you will taste God’s peace yourself, and wish it to others. I have found a good man, that lives in Croft’s Alley in Coventry, and he will give you a chamber and a chimney corner, and kind words, and a stout arm to protect you; and when we get you safe there your thoughts will be quiet.”
“Hout-tout! what talk ye about Alley and a chimney corner? haven’t I my own ingle, and my own ways, and my own company? What voice more pleasant to me than those I heard when I was young, and hear still? What’ll take better care of me than that old bird? Few there be that don’t shun to pass close by this hut; and they that come to it step swiftly back again. I was told, with a curse, that I might not live any where else, many years ago; and here I shall stop till my old bones crumble.”
“Why, mother, why, you might starve here if you were taken ill, and none to help you.”