She heard the jailer speaking to some one as he unlocked the door. Unable to control her curiosity as to the identity of this second person, she opened her eyes, but closed them again spasmodically.
Of the two persons standing on the threshold, one was the bent old jailer: the other—she quivered with dread. Through her shut lids she seemed to see the familiar figure in its cape of sable velvet, the red beard, the long nose beneath the steeple-crowned hat.
The jailer had begun to have doubts regarding the justice of the law, and his heart was in a strange ferment of dissatisfaction, for he thought the Devil had taken upon himself the names and forms of people doubtless innocent.
Moreover, the witch looked so like his own little granddaughter that he grumbled at permitting Sir Jonathan to disturb her.
“Let the poor child sleep,” he said, “child o’ the Devil though she be. Witch or no, I say, let her sleep if she can after such a day as this. Be no disturbing her, Sir Jonathan. Ye can come again i’ the morning, sith ye have gotten permission o’ the magistrate.”
“Very well, goodman, very well,” answered Sir Jonathan, “you are doubtless right. I bethink myself that she would be in no mood for amiable converse. But I will come to-morrow, bright and early.” He clapped the jailer on the shoulder and laughed sardonically. “Ha, ha, goodman, ’tis the early bird that catches the worm. Best close a witch’s mouth, I say, lest she fly away to bear tales.”