“And I always give them something to take for it, but they won’t willingly come into my cottage for all that.
“‘What do you fear?’ I say to them. ‘Come inside, now, and sit down.’
“But they’re off. Though they stop till they get their medicine. Ah, I sometimes think if ever I were overtaken by the persecutors, how many of those I’ve doctored, would stand by me in my need?”
“Who do you mean by the persecutors?” asked the children.
“Why, the folk who hunt the witches, my dears, those who, having evil in their own hearts, see it in others. Folk who read the Scriptures only to chastise their fellows by the twisted Word.”
She turned to stir the smouldering wood, and as she turned the children heard a distant sound. It was a sound that grew and gathered, and was composed of many cries. Granny Gather-Stick faced the children.
“They are here, even as we speak of them—Lord, Lord, be Thou my Friend.”
A sense of fear seized the children as the confused sounds grew louder.
Have you ever heard an angry mob? It is a dreadful thing. There is malignant strength in the sound, confusion, and alarm.
Nearer and nearer it came, and the old Granny turned to the children, her eyes like coals in her white face.