“Sink or swim, sink or swim,” cried other voices; “to feed the evil sperrits and the mud-worms, we don’t want no better than she.”
There was a scramble, a clumsy rush forward, and Martin saw old Granny half lifted, half dragged, amid the tumult, her eyes closed, her mouth set. The blood was welling out upon her forehead, dyeing the whiteness of her hair. Never before had he felt such sudden strength of wrath within him. He leaped forward with a cry. But the doctor was already speaking to them, already the voices of the crowd were lessening; they were inclining to attend.
The children held their breath while they heard his voice raised in expostulation; and soon it was the only voice heard.
“You may not understand why I am here speaking to you, you may think me wrong. But I have lived among you now for thirty years; and in all that time I have loved this village, and its folk, and there is not so much as a tree that I have not, at one time or another, blessed for the shade it has given, or a stream that I have not walked beside, and loved for its kindly uses and clear way. And all through these years there has come nothing before me of the cruelty of human nature. Its folly I have seen, and its sorrows, its failure to fulfil its own wayward desires, for even in the stress of vigorous life, man does not often rightly know what he would have. But I have one desire now before me, and these are the words of an old man—the words of one who says, how shall I go down to my grave comforted if I see this woman killed? This woman who has dwelt as my neighbour all these years, who has given to such as have asked, of her store of knowledge and wisdom. Are there not many here among you who have known her help? Has she not ministered to your children? Drown her, and you are allowing the very spirits you think her possessed by, to strive and gain an evil victory in your souls. Show mercy to her, and God Himself will be with you, and I shall not have asked a kindness of you now, in vain.”
The village folk muttered among themselves, some turning as if about to go. Others stood in knots, appearing dissatisfied, and repeating the charge that she was a witch. But a voice here and there asserted itself, chiefly the voices of women, and these spake good.
“She gave me good yerbs, when my little maid lay dying; ay, and I went to her—she didden come to me.”
“She never put her hand to anybody else’s business, as I know on, not unless they d’ go and ask her to. It’s all sorts that go to make a world, that’s certain. She midden have our ways, and we midden have hers, but there! she be flesh and blood, and I d’ know as how she’d have hurt a body, not if a body went to leave her to herself-like.”
“Well, I know one thing,” cried a shrill voice, “she washed my baby what died o’ the plague-spots, yes, washed ’un and lay’d ’un out fine, when there wasn’t so much as one of ye who’d come nigh me, and me like to die.”
This woman thrust her way through the crowd; she was young, and her eyes were alight and eager. She went to the prostrate figure of the old woman lying upon the ground.
“Look up! look up! Granny—see the sky and the birds! Look up, poor soul, you midden die, no, no, not to-day, nor yet to-morrow; we’ve got place for more o’ the likes o’ you. You come round again, poor soul, you open your eyes. Lord! Lord! you midden die.”