To which the groups called back again:
"A thief of a gypsy, begging alms while she had stolen gold on her. She has stabbed poor little Fréki, the blind cobbler's son, too. We think he is dead." And the people above, in horror, lifted their hands and eyes, and shouted afresh, "Au violon!—au violon!"
Meanwhile the honey-seller ran beside them, crying aloud that she had been robbed of five broad golden pieces.
It was a little sunny country-place, very green with trees and grass, filled usually with few louder sounds than the cackling of geese and the dripping of the well-water.
But its stones were sharp and rough; its voices were shrill and fierce; its gossips were cruel and false of tongue; its justice was very small, and its credulity was measureless. A girl, barefoot and bareheaded, with eyes of the East, and a knife in her girdle, teeth that met in their youngsters' wrist, and gold pieces that scattered like dust from her bosom,—such a one could have no possible innocence in their eyes, such a one was condemned so soon as she was looked at when she was dragged among them up their hilly central way.
She had had money on her, and she had asked for food on the plea of being starved; that was fraud plain enough, even for those who were free to admit that the seller of the honey-pots had never been overtrue of speech, and had never owned so much as five gold pieces ever since her first bees had sucked their first spray of heath-bells.
No one had any mercy on a creature who had money, and yet asked for work; as to her guilt, there could be no question.
She was hurried before the village tribune, and cast with horror into the cell where all accused waited their judgment.
It was a dusky, loathsome place, dripping with damp, half underground, strongly grilled with iron, and smelling foully from the brandy and strong smoke of two drunkards who had been its occupants the previous night.
There they left her, taking away her knife and her money.