“And some tobacco! Yes, I think I must have some tobacco!”
“Oh, give it to her!” cried Wise Olaf. “Give it her, and let us be on!”
Cautioning the children to play on the bank until their return, they formed in a group at the base of the hill, where the path led up to Witch Mary’s hut. Black Eric cracked his whip. The men picked up long sticks, all except Silent Sven. Viking cruelty shone in their faces. The women would have clung to their arms, but the men shook them off and started ahead, Black Eric leading.
It was a tangled path, knotted across by roots of trees and shrubs. The branches of the trees interlaced above, forming a shady arch. All along, beside the way, slender spires of blue vervain lifted their purple blossoms to the random sun.
“See,” said Kaisa, awed by the luxuriant growth. “See how thick it is. And witches have always used it in their caldrons. No wonder it grows here!”
“But the vervain,” protested Olga, “the vervain grew on Mount Calvary, and it has the power of healing.”
“You will say next, I suppose,” Kaisa retorted, “that it has been watered by the old witch’s tears!”
“Come on, you women!” called Wise Olaf. “Do not lag behind!”
The women became silent, not stopping again to take note of the flowers beside the way. They panted after the men, who were climbing rapidly.
“Can you see the hut?” called Kaisa, pausing to get her breath.