Deliverance stared horrified at him and, although she opened her mouth to speak, her voice was gone.
Goodwife Higgins dusted off the seat of a stool with her apron and pushed it over to the Beadle. “Sit ye down, goodman, and I will bring ye a glass o’ buttermilk. Also I will look for the maid’s father who be herb-gathering. As for ye, Deliverance, go to your room and wait there until this matter be settled.” For it had flashed into her mind that if she could get out of the kitchen, while Deliverance went to her room, she could slip around the corner of the house and assist the little maid out of the bedroom window, bidding her conceal herself in the forest.
“Nay,” said the Beadle, “I have no time to dilly-dally, as I have five stray cows to return this morning. Yet I will have a glass o’ buttermilk to wet my throat. I will watch the witch-maid that she escape not while ye be gone.”
The goodwife, the tears rolling down her face, hurried to the spring where the buttermilk was kept.
“I be no so wicked as ye make out,” said Deliverance, finding her voice.
“Touch me not,” cried the Beadle, jumping back in wondrous spry fashion for so pompous a man, and in his fright overturning the stool, “nay, come not so near. Take your hands off my doublet. Would ye cast a spell on me? Approach no nearer than the length o’ this staff.”
He turned the stool right side up again and seated himself to drink the buttermilk the dame brought him.
“Come,” he said, rising and giving back the mug when he had finished, “I have no time to dally with five cows to be gotten in.” He drew a stout rope from his pocket. “Tie her hands behind her, gossip,” he commanded, “I hanker not for to touch a witch-maid. Nay, not so easy, draw that knot tighter.”
Goodwife Higgins, weeping, did as he bade, then rose and put the little maid’s cap on her. She slipped some cookies into Deliverance’s work-pocket.