“When did it last bleed?”
Again an inaudible reply, and again his ringing voice—“That would be before this young hermit came? And to-day it will not bleed, you say?”
He flashed me a last keen glance of his eyes, which had grown narrow and seemed laden with mockery. The little lady whispered something to him, in answer to which he laughed contemptuously.
“Fool's mummery,” he snapped, and drew her on, she going, it seemed to me, reluctantly.
But the crowd had heard him and the insult offered to the shrine. A deep-throated bay rose up in menace, and some leapt to their feet as if they would attack him.
He checked, and wheeled at the sound. “How now?” he cried, his voice a trumpet-call, his eyes flashing terribly upon them; and as dogs crouch to heel at the angry bidding of their master, the multitude grew silent and afraid under the eyes of that single steel-clad man.
He laughed a deep-throated laugh, and strode down the hill with his little lady on his arm.
But when he had mounted and was riding off, the crowd, recovering courage from his remoteness, hurled its curses after him and shrilly branded him, “Derider!” and “Blasphemer!”
He rode contemptuously amain, however, looking back but once, and then to laugh at them.
Soon he had dipped out of sight, and of his company nothing was visible but the fluttering red pennons with the device of the white horse-head. Gradually these also sank and vanished, and once more I was alone with the crowd of pilgrims.