“Ye shall have fresh to lay on to-night,” piped the jailer, “but step in, step in.”
“Ay,” echoed the Beadle, “step in;” and he poked her again in the back with his stick in a merry fashion quite his own.
Sorely against her will, Deliverance complied. The jailer followed her in and bent over the chain.
“Take care lest she cast a spell on ye to make your bones ache,” advised the Beadle, standing safely outside the threshold.
“I be no feared,” answered the jailer, whom long experience and familiarity with witches had rendered impervious, “but the lock on this chain ha’ rusted an’ opens hard.”
“Concern yourself not,” rejoined the Beadle; “the maid be in no hurry, I wot, and can wait.” He laughed hugely at his little joke, and began munching one of the seed-cookies he had brought in his doublet pocket.
Nothing could have exasperated Deliverance more than to see the fat Beadle enjoying the cookies she herself had helped to make, and so she cast such a resentful look at him that he drew quickly back into the corridor beyond her gaze.
“If e’er I set eyes on a witch,” he muttered solemnly, “I have this time, for she has a glint in her een that makes my blood run cold.”