"Come on, lads, let's see what this uproar means!" shouted Felgate, and, setting spur to our steeds, we soon covered the distance that lay between us and the howling mob.
The cause of the tumult was soon plain. At the outskirts of the village was a small stagnant pond, by the side of which was erected a post with a swinging beam. At one end of the beam was a rough chair in which was bound a miserable old woman of repulsive appearance, whose face bore a look of mute despair. Around her the crowd surged, yelling: "Duck her! Duck the witch!" while eggs and filth were thrown with no uncertain aim at the unhappy specimen of humanity whom the mob had seen fit to bait.
As we approached, the crowd, too intent to notice our coming, had seized the beam and were swinging it over the pond with the object of immersing the occupant of the ducking stool.
We reined in for a moment to take counsel amongst ourselves.
"Rescue her by all means," said Felgate.
"But she is a witch; beware of the evil eye," demurred Drake, who, like all West-countrymen, deeply believed in witchcraft and sorcery, far more so than dwellers in other parts of England.
"Witch or no witch, she is a woman," retorted Felgate, "and it behoves all true gentlemen to protect a woman in danger."
With that we spurred forward and reached the outskirts of the crowd just as the great beam was being slowly lowered into the water.
"Hold!" shouted Felgate authoritatively, forcing his horse into the press. The mob gave way, still shouting fierce imprecations against the terrified old woman, and making hostile demonstrations against the interrupters of their fiendish sport.
"Who is responsible for this conventicle?" he continued, urging his horse towards the ducking stool.