Meanwhile the old fisherman, who had witnessed the scene, was so absorbed in his own reflections, that he did not seem disposed voluntarily to afford them any information.
At last one of them addressed Robin.
“Who was the fellow that fired the gun, Robin?”
“The foul fiend!" said Robin; “I saw him in the boat.”
“What foul fiend? was he devil or man?”
“He was a demon, who left me for a moment to torment others. I knew mischief would come of him as soon as he left me. He is always stirring up infernal broils; and would bring a host of enemies against me, if it were not for this charm. Look here,” and taking from his side a perforated bone, he held it up, saying, “this is the rib of Margery Beddingfield, who was gibbeted on Rushmere Heath for the murder of her husband. When I show him this, he will soon be off. This is so strong a spell, he cannot touch me. But look! there he is! there he is!" and the startled hinds closed round their lord, and looked fearfully in the direction of the door, to see if the murderer was coming.
“Aye, look at this, thou false fiend! Dost thou remember how thou didst stir up Margery, and Richard Ringe of Sternfield, her paramour, to murder John Beddingfield, the farmer, near Saxmundham? Thou couldst inflame their hot young blood to mischief; but what dost thou come here for? Off! off, I say! Look here! thou hadst better go to the officers of justice. Ha! ha! he is gone!" and the old man smiled again, as if he had defeated his foe, and was congratulating himself on the victory.
These things were very unsatisfactory to the minds of these plain-thinking countrymen. They again and again put questions to him, but could get no other answers than incoherences about the foul fiend.
“But what had Margaret Catchpole to do with it?”