"I do not speak of my arms, Jonas—my heart—my spirit—"
"Weak!" he scoffed. "A woman with a weak and timorous soul would not come to Thor's Stone at night. No—strong you are—in evil, in wickedness, from which no tears will withhold you. And—that fellow—that daub-paint—"
Mehetabel did not speak. She was trembling.
"I ask—what of him? Was not he in your thoughts when you asked the Devil to rid you of me—your husband?"
"I did not ask that, Jonas."
"What of him? He has not gone away. He has been with you. You knew he was not going. You wanted to be with him. Where is he—this dauber of canvas—now?"
Then, through the fine gauze of condensing haze, came a call from a distance—"Matabel! Where are you?"
"Oh, ho!" exclaimed the Broom-Squire. "Here he comes. By appointment you meet him here, where you least expected that I would be."
"It is false, Jonas. I came here to escape."
"And pray for my death?"