Now she had eaten her bread and fruit, and sat quietly in the shade of the willows, her head sinking gently down upon her arm.
She did not know how long she had slept, or even if she had slept at all; a loud laugh aroused her. The two gentlemen who had spoken to her in front of the church stood before her. “Here’s luck,” said one of them. “One doesn’t meet a little fool like this every day. Are you much edified, little one?”
“Leave her alone,” said the one who had spoken to her before. “She’s so pretty. Well, my dear child,” he said then, and put his hand under her chin, “you know you owe me thanks. Without me you would not have seen the Sacred Coat, and your mother would not have been made well. What are you going to give me for it?”
“Oh, good sir,” Margret courtesied, and took his hand confidently, “I thank you many thousand times. If I knew where you live I would bring you pine cones to help make the fire, and berries, and I will spin for your dear lady for nothing.”
“I thank you, my dear child”—the gentleman drew down the corners of his mouth—“but that’s a little too far off. You might give me a kiss, though, don’t you think, or perhaps two.”
“And me, too,” laughed the other. “We are good friends, and we’ll divide even.”
The frightened girl looked from one to the other. She drew her skirts together with her left hand and held her right arm out in front of her as if for protection. “No, oh, no!”
“Oh, yes, don’t be so foolish, little one.”
The gentleman’s face was not nearly so friendly now. He put out his arm and caught the girl in spite of her struggles. She tore herself loose with a scream, and sprang back from him.
There was a noise behind them in the bushes. A tall man stepped out between Margret and her pursuers. “Let that girl alone”—the stranger twirled a heavy stick in the air—“or I’ll show you something, you—”