"Do you two know," said Countess, in a low voice of concentrated determination, "that this child's parents, and all of their race that were with them, have been scourged by the Goyim?—branded, and cast forth as evil, and have died in the night and in the snow, because they would not worship idols? These are not of the brood of the priests, who hate them. The boy is mine, and shall be brought up as mine. I sware it."

"But not for life?"

"I sware it."

"Did the child's father know what thou hadst sworn? as if not, perchance there may be means to release thee."

The black eyes flashed fire.

"I tell you, I sware unto him by Adonai, the God of Israel, and He knew it! In the lowest depths and loftiest heights of my own soul I sware, and He heard it. I repeated the vow this night, when I clasped the boy to my heart once more. God will do so to me and more also, if I bring not the boy unhurt to his father and his mother at the Judgment Day!"

"But, my daughter, if it can be loosed?"

"What do I care for your loosing? He will not loose me. And the child shall not suffer. I will die first."

"Let the child tarry till he has recovered: did I not say so? Then he must go forth."

"If you turn him forth, you turn me forth with him."

"Nonsense!"

"You will see. I shall never leave him. My darling, my white snow-bird! I shall never leave the boy."

"My daughter," said the Rabbi softly, for he thought the oil might succeed where the vinegar had failed, "dost thou not see that Leo's advice is the best? The child must tarry with thee till he is well; no man shall prevent that."

"Amen!" said Countess.

"But that over, is it not far better both for him and thee that he should go to the Goyim? We will take pains, for the reverence of thine oath, to find friends of his parents, who will have good care of him: I promise thee it shall be done, and Leo will assent thereto."

Leo confirmed the words with—"Even so, Cohen!"

"But I pray thee, my daughter, remember what will be thought of thee, if thou shouldst act as thou art proposing to do. It will certainly be supposed that thou art wavering in the faith of thy fathers, if even it be not imagined that thou hast forsaken it. Only think of the horror of such a thing!"

"I have not forsaken the faith of Abraham."

"I am sure of that; nevertheless, it is good thou shouldst say it."

"If the Cohen agree," said Leo, stroking his white beard, "I am willing to make a compromise. As we have no child, and thou art so fond of children, the child shall abide with thee, on condition that thou take a like oath to bring him up a proselyte of Israel: and then let him be circumcised on the eighth day after his coming here. But if not, some friend of his parents must be found. What say you, Cohen?"

"I am willing so to have it."

"I am not," said Countess shortly. "As to friends of the child's parents, there are none such, save the God for whom they died, and in whose presence they stand to-night. I must keep mine oath. Unhurt in body, unhurt in soul, according to their conception thereof, and according to my power, will I bring the boy to his father at the coming of Messiah."

"Wife, wouldst thou have the Cohen curse thee in the face of all Israel?"

"These rash vows!" exclaimed the Rabbi, in evident uneasiness. "Daughter, it is written in the Thorah that if any woman shall make a vow, her husband may establish it or make it void, if he do so in the day that he hear it; and the Blessed One (unto whom be praise!) shall forgive her, and she shall not perform the vow."

"The vow was made before I was Leo's wife."

"Well, but in the day that he hath heard it, it is disallowed."

"There is something else written in the Thorah, Cohen. 'Every vow of a widow, or of her that is divorced, shall stand.'"

"Father Isaac! when didst thou read the Thorah? Women have no business to do any such thing."

"It is there, whether they have or not."

"Then it was thy father's part to disallow it."

"I told him of my vow, and he did not."

"That is an awkward thing!" said Leo in a low tone to the Rabbi.

"I must consult the Rabbins," was the answer. "It may be we shall find a loophole, to release the foolish woman. Canst thou remember the exact words of thy vow?"

"What matter the exact words? The Holy One (blessed be He!) looketh on the heart, and He knew what I meant to promise."

"Yet how didst thou speak?"

"I have told you. I said, 'God do so to me and more also, if I bring not the child to you unhurt!'"

"Didst thou say 'God'? or did the man say it, and thy word was only 'He'?" asked the Rabbi eagerly, fancying that he saw a way of escape.

"What do I know which it was? I meant Him, and that is in His eyes as if I had said it."

"Countess, if thou be contumacious, I cannot shelter thee," said Leo sternly.

"My daughter," answered the Rabbi, still suavely, though he was not far from anger, "I am endeavouring to find thee a way of escape."

"I do not wish to escape. I sware, and I will do it. Oh, bid me depart!" she cried, almost fiercely, turning to Leo. "I cannot bear this endless badgering. Give me my raiment and my jewels, and bid me depart in peace!"

There was a moment's dead silence, during which the two old men looked fixedly at each other. Then the Rabbi said—

"It were best for thee, Leo. Isaac the son of Deuslesalt [probably a translation of Isaiah or Joshua] hath a fair daughter, and he is richer than either Benefei or Jurnet. She is his only child."

"I have seen her: she is very handsome. Yet such a winter night! We will wait till morning, and not act rashly."

"No: now or not at all," said Countess firmly.

"My daughter," interposed the Rabbi hastily, "there is no need to be rash. If Leo give thee now a writing of divorcement, thou canst not abide in his house to-night. Wait till the light dawns. Sleep may bring a better mind to thee."

Countess vouchsafed him no answer. She turned to her husband.

"I never wished to dwell in thy house," she said very calmly, "but I have been a true and obedient wife. I ask thee now for what I think I have earned—my liberty. Let me go with my little child, whom I love dearly,—go to freedom, and be at peace. I can find another shelter for to-night. And if I could not, it would not matter—for me."

She stooped and gathered the sleeping child into her arms.

"Speak the words," she said. "It is the one boon that I ask of you."

Leo rose—with a little apparent reluctance—and placed writing materials before the Rabbi, who with the reed-pen wrote, or rather painted, a few Hebrew words upon the parchment. Then Leo, handing it to his wife, said solemnly—

"Depart in peace!"

The fatal words were spoken. Countess wrapped herself and Rudolph in the thick fur mantle, and turned to leave the room, saying to the man whose wife she was no longer—

"I beseech you, send my goods to my father's house. Peace be unto you!"

"Peace be to thee, daughter!" returned the Rabbi.

Then, still carrying the child, she went out into the night and the snow.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. See Matthew 27 verses 26, 27; Mark fourteen verses 22, 23; Luke twenty-two verses 17, 20; One Corinthians eleven verse 24, when it will be seen that "blessed" means gave thanks to God, not blessed the elements.

Note 2. Hebrews Seven verse 14; Eight verse 4.

Note 3. Matthew Eight verse 4.

Note 4. Acts two verse 46; twenty-seven verse 11; One Corinthians eleven verses 20-34.

Note 5. Diceto makes this barbarity a part of the sentence passed on the Germans. Newbury mentions it only as inflicted.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

IN THE WHITE WITCH'S HUT.

"But all my years have seemed so long; And toil like mine is wondrous dreary; And every body thinks me strong: And I'm aweary."

M.A. Chaplin.

"Heigh-Ho! It's a weary life, Gib—a weary life!"

The words came from an old woman, and were addressed to a cat. Neither of them was an attractive-looking object. The old woman was very old, having a face all over minute wrinkles, a pair of red eyes much sunken, and the semblance of a beard under her chin. The cat, a dark tabby, looked as if he had been in the wars, and had played his part valiantly. His coat, however, was less dilapidated than the old woman's garments, which seemed to be composed mainly of disconnected rags of all colours and shapes. She sat on a three-legged stool, beside a tiny hearth, on which burned a small fire of sticks.

"Nobody cares for us, Gib: nobody! They call me a witch—the saints know why, save that I am old and poor. I never did hurt to any, and I've given good herb medicines to the women about; and if I do mutter a few outlandish words over them, what harm does it do? They mean nothing; and they make the foolish girls fancy I know something more than they do, and so I get a silver penny here, or a handful of eggs there, and we make shift to live."

She spoke aloud, though in a low voice, as those often do who live alone; and the cat rose and rubbed himself against her, with a soft "Me-ew!"

"Well, Gib! Didst thou want to remind me that so long as thou art alive, I shall have one friend left? Poor puss!" and she stroked her uncomely companion.

"How the wind whistles! Well, it is cold to-night! There'll be nobody coming now to consult the Wise Woman. We may as well lie down, Gib— it's the only warm place, bed is. Holy saints! what's that?"

She listened intently for a moment, and Gib, with erect tail, went to the door and smelt under it. Then he looked back at his mistress, and said once more,—"Me-ew!"

"Somebody there, is there? A bit frightened, I shouldn't wonder. Come in, then—there's nought to fear,"—and she opened the crazy door of her hut. "Well, can't you come in—must I lift you up? Why, what—Mary, Mother!"

Half lifting, half dragging, for very little strength was left her, the old woman managed to pull her visitor inside. Then she bolted the door, and stooping down, with hands so gentle that they might have been an infant's, softly drew away from a young scarred face the snow-saturated hair.

"Ay, I see, my dear, I see! Don't you try to speak. I can guess what you are, and whence you come. I heard tell what had happened. Don't you stir, now, but just drink a drop of this warm mallow tea—the finest thing going for one in your condition. I can't give you raiment, for I've none for myself, but we'll see to-morrow if I can't get hold o' somewhat: you've not been used to wear rags. I'll have 'em, if I steal 'em. Now, don't look at me so reproachful-like! well, then, I'll beg 'em, if it worries you. Oh, you're safe here, my dear! you've no need to look round to see if no villains is a-coming after you. They'll not turn up in these quarters, take my word for it. Not one o' them would come near the witch's hut after nightfall. But I'm no witch, my dearie—only a poor old woman as God and the blessed saints have quite forgot, and folks are feared of me."

"The Lord never forgets," the parched lips tried to say.

"Don't He? Hasn't He forgot both you and me, now?"

"No—never!"

"Well, well, my dear! Lie still, and you shall tell me any thing you will presently. Have another sup!—just one at once, and often—you'll soon come round. I know some'at about herbs and such-like, if I know nought else. See, let me lay this bundle of straw under your head; isn't that more comfortable, now? Poor thing, now what are you a-crying for?—does your face pain you bad? I'll lay some herbs to it, and you won't have so much as a scar there when they've done their work. Ay, I know some'at about herbs, I do! Deary me, for sure!—poor thing, poor thing!"

"The Lord bless you!"

"Child, you're the first that has blessed me these forty years! and I never hear that name. Folks take me for one of Sathanas' servants, and they never speak to me of—that Other. I reckon they fancy I should mount the broomstick and fly through the chimney, if they did. Eh me!— and time was I was a comely young maid—as young and well-favoured as you, my dear: eh dear, dear, to think how long it is since! I would I could pull you a bit nearer the fire; but I've spent all my strength— and that's nought much—in hauling of you in. But you're safe, at any rate; and I'll cover you up with straw—I've got plenty of that, if I have not much else. Them villains, to use a young maid so!—or a wife, whichever you be. And they say I'm in league with the Devil! I never got so near him as they be."

"I am a maid."

"Well, and that's the best thing you can be. Don't you be in a hurry to change it. Come, now, I'll set on that sup o' broth was given me at the green house; you'll be ready to drink it by it's hot. Well, now, it's like old times and pleasant, having a bit o' company to speak to beside Gib here. What's your name, now, I wonder?"

"Ermine."

"Ay, ay. Well, mine's Haldane—old Haldane, the Wise Woman—I'm known all over Oxfordshire, and Berkshire too. Miles and miles they come to consult me. Oh, don't look alarmed, my pretty bird! you sha'n't see one of them if you don't like. There's a sliding screen behind here that I can draw, and do by times, when I want to fright folks into behaving themselves; I just draw it out, and speak from behind it, in a hollow voice, and don't they go as white!—I'll make a cosy straw bed for you behind it, and never a soul of 'em 'll dare to look in on you—no, not the justice himself, trust me. I know 'em: Lords, and constables, and foresters, and officers—I can make every mother's son of 'em shiver in his shoes, till you'd think he had the ague on him. But you sha'n't, my dear: you're as safe as if the angels was rocking you. Maybe they'll want to come with you: but they'll feel strange here. When you can talk a bit without hurting of you, you shall tell me how you got here."

"I lost my way in the snow."

"Well, no wonder! Was there many of you?"

"About thirty."

"And all served like you?"

"Yes, except my brother: he was our leader, and they served him worse. I do not think the children were branded."

"Children!"

"Ay, there were eight children with us."

"One minds one's manners when one has the angels in company, or else maybe I should speak my mind a bit straight. And what was it for, child?"

"They said we were heretics."

"I'll be bound they did! But what had you done?"

"My brother and some others had preached the Gospel of Christ in the villages round, and further away."

"What mean you by that, now?"

"The good news that men are sinners, and that Jesus died for sinners."

"Ah! I used to know all about that once. But now—He's forgotten me."

"No, never, never, Mother Haldane! It is thou who hast forgotten Him. He sent me to thee to-night to tell thee so."

"Gently now, my dear! Keep still. Don't you use up your bit of strength for a worthless old woman, no good to any body. There ain't nobody in the world as cares for me, child. No, there ain't nobody!"

"Mother Haldane, I think Christ cared for you on His cross; and He cares for you now in Heaven. He wanted somebody to come and tell you so; and nobody did, so he drove me here. You'll let me tell you all about it, won't you?"

"Softly, my dear—you'll harm yourself! Ay, you shall tell me any thing you will, my snow-bird, when you're fit to do it; but you must rest a while first."

There was no sleep that night for Mother Haldane. All the long winter night she sat beside Ermine, feeding her at short intervals, laying her herb poultices on the poor brow, covering up the chilled body from which it seemed as if the shivering would never depart. More and more silent grew the old woman as time went on, only now and then muttering a compassionate exclamation as she saw more clearly all the ill that had been done. She kept up the fire all night, and made a straw bed, as she had promised, behind the screen, where the invalid would be sheltered from the draught, and yet warm, the fire being just on the other side of the screen. To this safe refuge Ermine was able to drag herself when the morning broke.

"You'll be a fine cure, dearie!" said the old woman, looking on her with satisfaction. "You'll run like a hare yet, and be as rosy as Robin-run-by-the-hedge."

"I wonder why I am saved," said Ermine in a low voice. "I suppose all the rest are with God now. I thought I should have been there too by this time. Perhaps He has some work for me to do:—it may be that He has chosen you, and I am to tell you of His goodness and mercy."

"You shall tell any thing you want, dearie. You're just like a bright angel to old Mother Haldane. I'm nigh tired of seeing frightened faces. It's good to have one face that'll look at you quiet and kind; and nobody never did that these forty years. Where be your friends, my maid? You'll want to go to them, of course, when you're fit to journey."

"I have no friends but One," said the girl softly: "and He is with me now. I shall go to Him some day, when He has done His work in me and by me. As to other earthly friends, I would not harm the few I might mention, by letting their names be linked with mine, and they would be afraid to own me. For my childhood's friends, they are all over-sea. I have no friend save God and you."

When Ermine said, "He is with me now," the old woman had glanced round as if afraid of seeing some unearthly presence. At the last sentence she rose—for she had been kneeling by the girl—with a shake of her head, and went outside the screen, muttering to herself.

"Nobody but the snow-bird would ever link them two together! Folks think I'm Sathanas' thrall."

She put more sticks on the fire, muttering while she did so.

"'Goodness and mercy!' Eh, deary me! There's not been much o' that for the old witch. Folks are feared of even a white witch, and I ain't a black 'un. Ay, feared enough. They'll give me things, for fear. But nobody loves me—no, nobody loves me!"

With a vessel of hot broth in her hands, she came back to the niche behind the screen.

"Now, my dearie, drink it up. I must leave you alone a while at after. I'm going out to beg a coverlet and a bit more victuals. You're not afeared to be left? There's no need, my dear—never a whit. The worst outlaw in all the forest would as soon face the Devil himself as look behind this screen. But I'll lock you in if you like that better."

"As you will, Mother Haldane. The Lord will take care of me, in the way He sees best for me, and most for His glory."

"I'll lock you in. It'll not be so hard for Him then. Some'at new, bain't it, for the like o' me to think o' helping Him?"

Ermine answered only by a smile. Let the old woman learn to come nigh to God, she thought, however imperfectly; other items could be put right in time.

It was nearly three hours before Haldane returned, and she came so well laden that she had some work to walk. A very old fur coverlet hung over her left arm, while on her right was a basket that had seen hard service in its day.

"See you here, dearie!" she said, holding them up to the gaze of her guest. "Look you at all I've got for you. I didn't steal a bit of it— I saw from your face you wouldn't like things got that way. Here's a fine happing of fur to keep you warm; and I've got a full dozen of eggs given me, and a beef-bone to make broth, and a poke o' meal: and they promised me a cape at the green house, if I bring 'em some herbs they want. We shall get along grandly, you'll see. I've picked up a fine lot of chestnuts, too,—but them be for me; the other things be for you. I'll set the bone on this minute; it's got a goodly bit o' meat on it."

"You are very good to me, Mother Haldane. But you must take your share of the good things."

"Never a whit, my dearie! I got 'em all for you. There, now!"

She spread the fur coverlet over Ermine, wrapping her closely in it, and stood a moment to enjoy the effect.

"Ain't that warm, now? Oh, I know where to go for good things! Trust the Wise Woman for that! Can you sleep a while, my dear? Let me put you on a fresh poultice, warm and comforting, and then you'll try, won't you? I'll not make no more noise than Gib here, without somebody comes in, and then it's as may be."

She made her poultice, and put it on, covered Ermine well, made up the fire, and took her seat on the form, just outside the screen, while Ermine tried to sleep. But sleep was coy, and would not visit the girl's eyes. Her state of mind was strangely quiescent and acquiescent in all that was done to her or for her. Perhaps extreme weakness had a share in this; but she felt as if sorrow and mourning were as far from her as was active, tumultuous joy. Calm thankfulness and satisfaction with God's will seemed to be the prevailing tone of her mind. Neither grief for the past nor anxiety for the future had any place in it. Her soul was as a weaned child.

As Haldane sat by the fire, and Ermine lay quiet but fully awake on the other side of the screen, a low tap came on the door.

"Enter!" said Haldane in a hollow voice, quite unlike the tone she used to Ermine: for the Wise Woman was a ventriloquist, and could produce terrifying effects thereby.

The visitor proved to be a young woman, who brought a badly-sprained wrist for cure. She was treated with an herb poultice, over which the old woman muttered an inaudible incantation; and having paid a bunch of parsnips as her fee, she went away well satisfied. Next came a lame old man, who received a bottle of lotion. The third applicant wanted a charm to make herself beautiful. She was desired to wash herself once a day in cold spring water, into which she was to put a pinch of a powder with which the witch furnished her. While doing so, she was to say three times over—

"Win in, white! Wend out, black! Bring to me that I do lack. Wend out, black! Win in, white! Sweet and seemly, fair to sight."

The young lady, whose appearance might certainly have been improved by due application of soap and water, departed repeating her charm diligently, having left behind her as payment a brace of rabbits.

A short time elapsing, before any fresh rap occurred, Haldane went to look at her patient.

"Well, my dear, and how are you getting on? Not asleep, I see. Look at them rabbits! I can make you broth enough now. Get my living this way, look you. And it's fair too, for I gives 'em good herbs. Fine cures I make by times, I can tell you."

"I wondered what you gave the last," said Ermine.

The old woman set her arms akimbo and laughed.

"Eh, I get lots o' that sort. It's a good wash they want, both for health and comeliness; and I make 'em take it that way. The powder's nought—it's the wash does it, look you: but they'd never do it if I told 'em so. Mum, now! there's another."

And dropping her voice to a whisper, Haldane emerged from the screen, and desired the applicant to enter.

It was a very handsome young woman who came in, on whose face the indulgence of evil passions—envy, jealousy, and anger—had left as strong a mark as beauty. She crossed herself as she stepped over the threshold.

"Have you a charm that will win hearts?" she asked.

"Whose heart do you desire to win?" was the reply.

"That of Wigan the son of Egglas."

"Has it strayed from you?"

"I have never had it. He loves Brichtiva, on the other side of the wood, and he will not look on me. I hate her. I want to beguile his heart away from her."

"What has she done to you?"

"Done!" cried the girl, with a flash of her eyes. "Done! She is fair and sweet, and she has won Wigan's love. That is what she has done to me."

"And you love Wigan?"

"I care nothing for Wigan. I hate Brichtiva. I want to be revenged on her."

"I can do nothing for you," answered Haldane severely. "Revenge is the business of the black witch, not the Wise Woman who deals in honest simples and harmless charms. Go home and say thy prayers, Maiden, and squeeze the black drop out of thine heart, that thou fall not into the power of the Evil One. Depart!"

This interview quite satisfied Ermine that Haldane was no genuine witch of the black order. However dubious her principles might be in some respects, she had evidently distinct notions of right and wrong, and would not do what she held wicked for gain.

Other applicants came at intervals through the day. There were many with burns, scalds, sprains, or bruises, nearly all of which Haldane treated with herbal poultices, or lotions; some with inward pain, to whom she gave bottles of herbal drinks. Some wanted charms for all manner of purposes—to make a horse go, induce plants to grow, take off a spell, or keep a lover true. A few asked to have their fortunes told, and wonderful adventures were devised for them. After all the rest, when it began to grow dusk, came a man muffled up about the face, and evidently desirous to remain unknown.

The White Witch rested her hands on the staff which she kept by her, partly for state and partly for support, and peered intently at the half-visible face of the new-comer.

"Have you a charm that will keep away evil dreams?" was the question that was asked in a harsh voice.

"It is needful," replied Haldane in that hollow voice, which seemed to be her professional tone, "that I should know what has caused them."

"You a witch, and ask that?" was the sneering answer.

"I ask it for your own sake," said Haldane coldly. "Confession of sin is good for the soul."

"When I lack shriving, I will go to a priest. Have you any such charm?"

"Answer my question, and you shall have an answer to yours."

The visitor hesitated. He was evidently unwilling to confess.

"You need not seek to hide from me," resumed Haldane, "that the wrong you hold back from confessing is a deed of blood. The only hope for you is to speak openly."

The Silence continued unbroken for a moment, during which the man seemed to be passing through a mental conflict. At length he said, in a hoarse whisper—

"I never cared for such things before. I have done it many a time,—not just this, but things that were quite as—well, bad, if you will. They never haunted me as this does. But they were men, and these—Get rid of the faces for me! I must get rid of those terrible faces."

"If your confession is to be of any avail to you, it must be complete," said Haldane gravely. "Of whose faces do you wish to be rid?"

"It's a woman and a child," said the man, his voice sinking lower every time he spoke, yet it had a kind of angry ring in it, as if he appealed indignantly against some injustice. "There were several more, and why should these torment me? Nay, why should they haunt me at all? I only did my duty. There be other folks they should go to—them that make such deeds duty. I'm not to blame—but I can't get rid of those faces! Take them away, and I'll give you silver—gold—only take them away!"

The probable solution of the puzzle struck Haldane as she sat there, looking earnestly into the agitated features of her visitor.

"You must confess all," she said, "the names and every thing you know. I go to mix a potion which may help you. Bethink you, till I come again, of all the details of your sin, that you may speak honestly and openly thereof."

And she passed behind the screen. One glance at the white face of the girl lying there told Haldane that her guess was true. She knelt down, and set her lips close to Ermine's ear.

"You know the voice," she whispered shortly. "Who is he?"

"The Bishop's sumner, who arrested us."

"And helped to thrust you forth at the gate?"

Ermine bowed her head. Haldane rose, and quickly mixing in a cup a little of two strong decoctions of bitter herbs, she returned to her visitor.

"Drink that," she said, holding out the cup, and as he swallowed the bitter mixture, she muttered—

"Evil eye be stricken blind! Cords about thy heart unwind! Tell the truth, and shame the fiend!"

The sumner set down the cup with a wry face.

"Mother, I will confess all save the names, which I know not. I am sumner of my Lord of Lincoln, and I took these German heretics four months gone, and bound them, and cast them into my Lord's prison. And on Sunday, when they were tried, I guarded them through the town, and thrust them out of the East Gate. Did I do any more than my duty? There were women and little children among them, and they went to perish. They must all be dead by now, methinks, for no man would dare to have compassion on them, and the bitter cold would soon kill men so weak already with hunger. Yet they were heretics, accursed of God and men: but their faces were like the faces of the angels that are in Heaven. Two of those faces—a mother and a little child—will never away from me. I know not why nor how, but they made me think of another winter night, when there was no room for our Lady and her holy Child among men on earth. Oh take away those faces! I can bear no more."

"Did they look angrily at thee?"

"Angry! I tell you they were like the angels. I was pushing them out at the gate—I never thought of any thing but getting rid of heretics— when she turned, and the child looked up on me—such a look! I shall behold it till I die, if you cannot rid me of it."

"My power extends not to angels," replied Haldane.

"Can you do nought for me, then?" he asked in hopeless accents. "Must I feel for ever as Herod the King felt, when he had destroyed the holy innocents? I am not worse than others—why should they torture me?"

"Punishment must always follow sin."

"Sin! Is it any sin to punish a heretic? Father Dolfin saith it is a shining merit, because they are God's enemies, and destroy men's souls. I have not sinned. It must be Satan that torments me thus; it can only be he, since he is the father of heretics, and they go straight to him. Can't you buy him off? I 'll give you any gold to get rid of those faces! Save me from them if you can!"

"I cannot. I have no power in such a case as thine. Get thee to the priest and shrive thee, thou miserable sinner, for thy help must come from Heaven and not from earth."

"The priest! Shrive me for obeying the Bishop, and bringing doom upon the heretics! Nay, witch!—art thou so far gone down the black road that thou reckonest such good works to be sins?"

And the sumner laughed bitterly.

"It is thy confession of sin wherewith I deal," answered Haldane sternly. "It is thy conscience, not mine, whereon it lieth heavy. Who is it that goeth down the black road—the man that cannot rest for the haunting of dead faces, or the poor, harmless, old woman, that bade him seek peace from the Church of God?"

"The Church would never set that matter right," said the sumner, half sullenly, as he rose to depart.

"Then there is but one other hope for thee," said a clear low voice from some unseen place: "get thee to Him who is the very Head of the Church of God, and who died for thee and for all Christian men."

The sumner crossed himself several times over, not waiting for the end of one performance before he began another.

"Dame Mary, have mercy on us!" he cried; "was that an angel that spake?"

"An evil spirit would scarcely have given such holy counsel," gravely responded Haldane.

"Never expected to hear angels speak in a witch's hut!" said the astonished sumner. "Pray you, my Lord Angel—or my Lady Angela, if so be—for your holy intercession for a poor sinner."

"Better shalt thou have," replied the voice, "if thou wilt humbly rest thy trust on Christ our Lord, and seek His intercession."

"You see well," added Haldane, "that I am no evil thing, else would good spirits not visit me."

The humbled sumner laid two silver pennies in her hand, and left the hut with some new ideas in his head.

"Well, my dear, you've a brave heart!" said Haldane, when the sound of his footsteps had died away. "I marvel you dared speak. It is well he took you for an angel; but suppose he had not, and had come round the screen to see? When I told you the worst outlaw in the forest would not dare to look in on you, I was not speaking of them. They stick at nothing, commonly."

"If he had," said Ermine quietly, "the Lord would have known how to protect me. Was I to leave a troubled soul with the blessed truth untold, because harm to my earthly life might arise thereby?"

"But, my dear, you don't think he'll be the better?"

"If he be not, the guilt will not rest on my head."

The dark deepened, and the visitors seemed to have done coming. Haldane cooked a rabbit for supper for herself and Ermine, not forgetting Gib. She had bolted the door for the night, and was fastening the wooden shutter which served for a window, when a single tap on the door announced a late applicant for her services. Haldane opened the tiny wicket, which enabled her to speak without further unbarring when she found it convenient.

"Folks should come in the day," she said.

"Didn't dare!" answered a low whisper, apparently in the voice of a young man. "Can you find lost things?"

"That depends on the planets," replied Haldane mysteriously.

"But can't you rule the planets?"

"No; they rule me, and you too. However, come within, and I will see what I can do for you."

Unbarring the door, she admitted a muffled man, whose face was almost covered by a woollen kerchief evidently arranged for that purpose.

"What have you lost?" asked the Wise Woman.

"The one I loved best," was the unexpected answer.

"Man, woman, or child?"

"A maiden, who went forth the morrow of Saint Lucian, by the East Gate of Oxford, on the Dorchester road. If you can, tell me if she be living, and where to seek her."

Haldane made a pretence of scattering a powder on the dying embers of her wood-fire. [Note 1.]

"The charm will work quicker," she said, "if I know the name of the maiden."

"Ermine."

Haldane professed to peer into the embers.

"She is a foreigner," she remarked.

"Ay, you have her."

"A maiden with fair hair, a pale soft face, blue eyes, and a clear, gentle voice."

"That's it!—where is she?"

"She is still alive."

"Thanks be to all the saints! Where must I go to find her?"

"The answer is, Stay where you are."

"Stay! I cannot stay. I must find and succour her."

"Does she return your affection?"

"That's more than I can say. I've never seen any reason to think so."

"But you love her?"

"I would have died for her!" said the young man, with an earnest ring in his voice. "I have perilled my life, and the priests say, my soul. All this day have I been searching along the Dorchester way, and have found every one of them but two—her, and one other. I did my best, too, to save her and hers before the blow fell."

"What would you do, if you found her?"

"Take her away to a safe place, if she would let me, and guard her there at the risk of my life—at the cost, if need be."

"The maid whom you seek," said Haldane, after a further examination of the charred sticks on the hearth, "is a pious and devout maiden; has your life been hitherto fit to mate with such?"

"Whatever I have been," was the reply, "I would give her no cause for regret hereafter. A man who has suffered as I have has no mind left for trifling. She should do what she would with me."

Haldane seemed to hesitate whether she should give further information or not.

"Can't you trust me?" asked the young man sorrowfully. "I have done ill deeds in my life, but one thing I can say boldly,—I never yet told a lie. Oh, tell me where to go, if my love yet lives? Can't you trust me?"

"I can," said a voice which was not Haldane's. "I can, Stephen."

Stephen stared round the hut as if the evidence of his ears were totally untrustworthy. Haldane touched him on the shoulder with a smile.

"Come!" she said.

The next minute Stephen was kneeling beside Ermine, covering her hand with kisses, and pouring upon her all the sweetest and softest epithets which could be uttered.

"They are all gone, sweet heart," he said, in answer to her earnest queries. "And the priests may say what they will, but I believe they are in Heaven."

"But that other, Stephen? You said, me and one other. One of the men, I suppose?"

"That other," said Stephen gently, "that other, dear, is Rudolph."

"What can have become of him?"

"He may have strayed, or run into some cottage. That I cannot find him may mean that he is alive."

"Or that he died early enough to be buried," she said sadly.

"The good Lord would look to the child," said Haldane unexpectedly. "He is either safe with Him, or He will tell you some day what has become of Him."

"You're a queer witch!" said Stephen, looking at her with some surprise.

"I'm not a witch at all. I'm only a harmless old woman who deals in herbs and such like, but folks make me out worse than I am. And when every body looks on you as black, it's not so easy to keep white. If others shrink from naming God to you, you get to be shy of it too. Men and women have more influence over each other than they think. For years and years I've felt as if my soul was locked up in the dark, and could not get out: but this girl, that I took in because she needed bodily help, has given me better help than ever I gave her—she has unlocked the door, and let the light in on my poor smothered soul. Now, young man, if you'll take an old woman's counsel—old women are mostly despised, but they know a thing or two, for all that—you'll just let the maid alone a while. She couldn't be safer than she is here; and she'd best not venture forth of the doors till her hurts are healed, and the noise and talk has died away. Do you love her well enough to deny yourself for her good? That's the test of real love, and there are not many who will stand it."

"Tell me what you would have me do, and I'll see," answered Stephen with a smile.

"Can you stay away for a month or two?"

"Well, that's ill hearing. But I reckon I can, if it is to do any good to Ermine."

"If you keep coming here," resumed the shrewd old woman, "folks will begin to ask why. And if they find out why, it won't be good for you or Ermine either. Go home and look after your usual business, and be as like your usual self as you can. The talk will soon be silenced if no fuel be put to it. And don't tell your own mother what you have found."

"I've no temptation to do that," answered Stephen gravely. "My mother has been under the mould this many a year."

"Well, beware of any friend who tries to ferret it out of you—ay, and of the friends who don't try. Sometimes they are the more treacherous of the two. Let me know where you live, and if you are wanted I will send for you. Do you see this ball of grey wool? If any person puts that into your hand, whenever and however, come here as quick as you can. Till then, keep away."

"Good lack! But you won't keep me long away?"

"I shall think of her, not of you," replied Haldane shortly. "And the more you resent that, the less you love."

After a moment's struggle with his own thoughts, Stephen said, "You're right, Mother. I'll stay away till you send for me."

"Those are the words of a true man," said Haldane, "if you have strength to abide by them. Remember, the test of love is not sweet words, but self-sacrifice; and the test of truth is not bold words, but patient endurance."

"I'm not like to forget it. You bade me tell you where I live? I am one of the watchmen in the Castle of Oxford; but I am to be found most days from eleven to four on duty at the Osney Gate of the Castle. Only, I pray you to say to whomsoever you make your messenger, that my brother's wife—he is porter at the chief portal—is not to be trusted. She has a tongue as long as the way from here to Oxford, and curiosity equal to our mother Eve's or greater. Put yon ball of wool in her hand, and she'd never take a wink of sleep till she knew all about it."

"I trust no man till I have seen him, and no woman till I have seen through her," said Haldane.

"Well, she's as easy to see through as a church window. Ermine knows her. If you must needs trust any one, my cousin Derette is safe; she is in Saint John's anchorhold. But I'd rather not say too much of other folks."

"O Stephen, Mother Isel!"

"Aunt Isel would never mean you a bit of harm, dear heart, I know that. But she might let something out that she did not mean; and if a pair of sharp ears were in the way, it would be quite as well she had not the chance. She has carried a sore heart for you all these four months, Ermine; and she cried like a baby over your casting forth. But Uncle Manning and Haimet were as hard as stones. Flemild cried a little too, but not like Aunt Isel. As to Anania, nothing comes amiss to her that can be sown to come up talk. If an earthquake were to swallow one of her children, I do believe she'd only think what a fine thing it was for a gossip."

"I hope she's not quite so bad as that, Stephen."

"Hope on, sweet heart, and farewell. Here's Mother Haldane on thorns to get rid of me—that I can see. Now, Mother, what shall I pay you for your help, for right good it has been?"

Haldane laid her hand on Stephen's, which was beginning to unfasten his purse—a bag carried on the left side, under the girdle.

"Pay me," she said, "in care for Ermine."

"There's plenty of that coin," answered Stephen, smiling, as he withdrew his hand. "You'll look to your half of the bargain, Mother, and trust me to remember mine."

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. The ordinary fire at this time was of wood. Charcoal, the superior class of fuel, cost from 5 shillings to 10 shillings per ton (modern value from six to twelve guineas).



CHAPTER NINE.

THE SECRET THAT WAS NOT TOLD.

"Thine eye is on Thy wandering sheep; Thou knowest where they are, and Thou wilt keep And bring them home."

Hetty Bowman.

"So you've really come back at last! Well, I did wonder what you'd gone after! Such lots of folks have asked me—old Turguia, and Franna, and Aunt Isel, and Derette—leastwise Leuesa—and ever such a lot: and I couldn't tell ne'er a one of them a single word about it."

Anania spoke in the tone of an injured woman, defrauded of her rights by the malice prepense of Stephen.

"Well," said Stephen calmly, "you may tell them all that I went after my own business; and if any of them thinks that's what a man shouldn't do, she can come and tell me so."

"Well, to be sure! But what business could you have to carry you out of the town for such a time, and nobody to know a word about it? Tell me that, if you please."

"Don't you tell her nought!" said Osbert in the chimney-corner. "If you went to buy a new coat, she'll want to know where the money was minted, and who sheared the sheep."

"I'll finish my pie first, I think," answered Stephen, "for I am rather too hungry for talk; and I dare say she'll take no harm by that."

He added, in mental reservation,—"And meantime I can be thinking what to say."

"Oh, you never want to know nought!" exclaimed Anania derisively. "Turguia, she said you were gone after rabbits—as if any man in his senses would do that in the snow: and Aunt Isel thought you were off on a holiday; and Franna was certain sure you were gone a-courting."

Stephen laughed to himself, but made no other reply.

"Baint you a-going to tell me, now?" demanded Anania.

"Aunt Isel wasn't so far out," said Stephen, helping himself to a second wedge of pie.

"And Franna?"

Anania was really concerned on that point. She found Stephen very useful, and his wages, most of which he gave her, more than paid for his board. If he were to marry and set up house for himself, it would deprive her of the means to obtain sundry fashionable frivolities wherein her soul delighted. Stephen was quite aware of these facts, which put an amusing edge on his determination to keep the truth from the inquisitive gossip.

"Franna?" he repeated. "Did you say she thought I'd gone after squirrels? because I've brought ne'er a one."

"No, stupid! She said you'd gone a-courting, and I want to know who."

"You must ask Franna that, not me. I did not say so."

"You'll say nothing, and that's the worst of signs. When folks won't answer a reasonable question, ten to one they've been in some mischief."

"I haven't finished the pie."

"Much you'll tell me when you have!"

"Oh, I'll answer any reasonable question," said Stephen, with a slight emphasis on the adjective.

Osbert laughed, and Anania was more vexed than ever.

"You're a pair!" said he.

"Now, look you here! I'll have an answer, if I stand here while Christmas; and you sha'n't have another bite till you've given it. Did you go a-courting?"

As Anania had laid violent hands on the pie, which she held out of his grasp, and as Stephen had no desire to get into a genuine quarrel with her, he was obliged to make some reply.

"Will you give me back the pie, if I tell you?"

"Yes, I will."

"Then, I'd no such notion in my head. Let's have the pie."

"When?" Anania still withheld the pie.

"When what?"

"When hadn't you such a notion? when you set forth, or when you came back?"

"Eat thy supper, lad, and let them buzzing things be!" said Osbert. "There'll never be no end to it, and thou mayest as well shut the portcullis first as last."

"Them's my thoughts too," said Stephen.

"Then you sha'n't have another mouthful."

"Nay, you're off your bargain. I answered the question, I'm sure."

"You've been after some'at ill, as I'm a living woman! You'd have told me fast enough if you hadn't. There's the pie,"—Anania set it up on a high shelf—"take it down if you dare!"

"I've no wish to quarrel with you, Sister. I'll go and finish my supper at Aunt Isel's—they'll give me some'at there, I know."

"Anania, don't be such a goose!" said Osbert.

"Don't you meddle, or you'll get what you mayn't like!" was the conjugal answer.

Osbert rose and took down a switch from its hook on the wall.

"You'll get it first, my lady!" said he: and Stephen, who never had any fancy for quarrelling, and was wont to leave the house when such not unfrequent scenes occurred, shut the door on the ill-matched pair, and went off to Kepeharme Lane.

"Stephen, is it? Good even, lad. I'm fain to see thee back. Art only just come?"

"Long enough to eat half a supper, and for Anania to get into more than half a temper," said Stephen, laughing. "I'm come to see, Aunt, if you'll give me another half."

"That I will, lad, and kindly welcome. What will thou have? I've a fat fish pie and some cold pork and beans."

"Let's have the pork and beans, for I've been eating pie up yonder."

"Good, and I'll put some apples down to roast. Hast thou enjoyed thy holiday?"

"Ay, middling, thank you, if it hadn't been so cold."

"It's a desperate cold winter!" said Isel, with a sigh, which Stephen felt certain was breathed to the memory of the Germans. "I never remember a worse."

"I'm afraid you feel lonely, Aunt."

"Ay, lonely enough, the saints know!"

"Why doesn't Haimet wed, and bring you a daughter to help you? Mabel's a bit too grand, I reckon."

"Mabel thinks a deal of herself, that's true. Well. I don't know. One's not another, Stephen."

"I'll not gainsay you, Aunt Isel. But mayn't 'another' be better than none? Leastwise, some others,"—as a recollection of his amiable sister-in-law crossed his mind.

"I don't know, Stephen. Sometimes that hangs on the 'one.' You'll think it unnatural in me, lad, but I don't miss Flemild nor Derette as I do Ermine."

"Bless you, dear old thing!" said Stephen in his heart.

"O Stephen, lad, I believe you've a kind heart; you've shown it in a many little ways. Do let me speak to you of them now and again! Your uncle won't have me say a word, and sometimes I feel as if I should burst. I don't believe you'd tell on me, if I did, and it would relieve me like, if I could let it out to somebody."

"Catch me at it!" said Stephen significantly. "You say what you've a mind, Aunt Isel: I'm as safe as the King's Treasury."

"Well, lad, do you think they're all gone—every one?"

"I'm afraid there's no hope for the most of them, Aunt," said Stephen in a low voice.

"Then you do think there might—?"

"One, perhaps, or two—ay, there might be, that had got taken in somewhere. I can't say it isn't just possible. But folks would be afraid of helping them, mostly."

"Ay, I suppose they would," said Isel sorrowfully.

Stephen ate in silence, sorely tempted to tell her what he knew. Had the danger been for himself only, and not for Ermine, he thought he should certainly have braved it.

"Well!" said Isel at last, as she stood by the fire, giving frequent twirls to the string which held the apples. "Maybe the good Lord is more merciful than men. They haven't much mercy."

"Hold you there!" said Stephen.

"Now why shouldn't we?—we that are all sinners, and all want forgiving? We might be a bit kinder to one another, if we tried."

"Some folks might. I'm not sure you could, Aunt Isel."

"Eh, lad, I'm as bad a sinner as other folks. I do pray to be forgiven many a time."

"Maybe that's a good help to forgiving," said Stephen.

"So you're back from your holiday?" said Haimet, coming in, and flinging his felt hat on one of the shelves. "Well, where did you go?"

"Oh, round-about," replied Stephen, taking his last mouthful of beans.

"Did you go Banbury way?"

"No, t'other way," answered Stephen, without indicating which other way.

"Weather sharp, wasn't it?"

"Ay, sharp enough. It's like to be a hard winter.—Well, Aunt, I'm much obliged to you. I reckon I'd best be turning home now."

"Weather rather sharp there too, perhaps?" suggested Haimet jocosely.

"Ay, there's been a bit of a storm since I got back. I came here to get out of it. I'm a fair-weather-lover, as you know."

Stephen went home by a round-about way, for he took Saint John's anchorhold in the route. He scarcely knew why he did it; he had an idea that the sight of Derette would be an agreeable diversion of his thoughts. Too deep down to be thoroughly realised, was a vague association of her with Ermine, whose chief friend in the family she had been.

Derette came to the casement as soon as she heard from Leuesa who was there.

"Good evening, Stephen!" she said cordially. "Leuesa, my maid, while I chat a minute with my cousin, prithee tie on thine hood and run for a cheese. I forgot it with the other marketing this morrow. What are cheeses now? a halfpenny each?"

"Three a penny, Lady, they were yesterday."

"Very good; bring a pennyworth, and here is the money."

As soon as Leuesa was out of hearing, Derette turned to Stephen with a changed expression on her face.

"Stephen!" she said, in a low whisper, "you have been to see after them. Tell me what you found."

"I never said nought o' the sort," answered Stephen, rather staggered by his cousin's penetration and directness.

"Maybe your heart said it to mine. You may trust me, Stephen. I would rather let out my life-blood than any secret which would injure them."

"Well, you're not far wrong, Derette. Gerard and Agnes are gone; they lie under the snow. So does Adelheid; but Berthold was not buried; I reckon he was one of the last. I cannot find Rudolph."

"You have told me all but the one thing my heart yearns to know. Ermine?"

Stephen made no reply.

"You have found her!" said Derette. "Don't tell me where. It is enough, if she lives. Keep silence."

"Some folks are hard that you'd have looked to find soft," answered Stephen, with apparent irrelevance; "and by times folk turn as soft as butter that you'd expect to be as hard as stones."

Derette laid up the remark in her mind for future consideration.

"Folks baint all bad that other folks call ill names," he observed further.

Derette gave a little nod. She was satisfied that Ermine had found a refuge, and with some unlikely person.

"Wind's chopped round since morning, seems to me," pursued Stephen, as if he had nothing particular to say. "Blew on my back as I came up to the gate."

Another nod from Derette. She understood that Ermine's refuge lay south of Oxford.

"Have you seen Flemild?" she asked. "She has sprained her wrist sadly, and cannot use her hand."

"Now just you tell her," answered Stephen, with a significant wink, "I've heard say the White Witch of Bensington makes wonderful cures with marsh-mallows poultice: maybe it would ease her."

"I'll let her know, be sure," said Derette: and Stephen took his leave as Leuesa returned with her purchase.

He had told her nothing about Ermine: he had told her every thing. Derette thanked God for the—apparently causeless—impulse to mention her sister's accident, which had just given Stephen the opportunity to utter the last and most important item. Not the slightest doubt disturbed her mind that Ermine was in the keeping of the White Witch of Bensington, and that Stephen was satisfied of the Wise Woman's kind treatment and good faith. She was sorry for Gerhardt and Agnes; but she had loved Ermine best of all. As for Rudolph, if Ermine were safe, why should he not be likewise? Derette's was a hopeful nature, not given to look on the dark side of any thing which had a light one: a tone of mind which, as has been well said, is worth a thousand a year to its possessor.

Leuesa returned full of excitement. A wolf had been killed only three miles from the city, and the Earl had paid the sportsman fourpence for its head, which was to be sent up to the King—the highest price ever given for a wolf's head in that county. The popular idea that Edgar exterminated all the wolves in England is an error. Henry Second paid tenpence for three wolves' heads [Pipe Roll, 13 Henry Second], and Henry Third's State Papers speak of "hares, wolves, and cats," in the royal forests [Close Roll, 38 Henry Third].

The days went on, and Stephen received no summons to the Wise Woman's hut. He found it very hard to keep away. If he could only have known that all was going on right! But weeks and months passed by, and all was silence. Stephen almost made up his mind to brave the witch's anger, and go without bidding. Yet there would be danger in that, for Anania, who had been piqued by his parrying of her queries, watched him as a cat watches a mouse.

He was coming home, one evening in early summer, having been on guard all day at the East Gate, when, as he passed the end of Snydyard (now Oriel) Street, a small child of three or four years old toddled up to him, and said—

"There! Take it."

Stephen, who had a liking for little toddlers, held out his hand with a smile; and grew suddenly grave when there was deposited in it a ball of grey wool.

"Who gave thee this?"

"Old man—down there—said, 'Give it that man with the brown hat,'" was the answer.

Stephen thanked the child, threw it a sweetmeat, with which his pocket was generally provided, and ran after the old man, whom he overtook at the end of the street.

"What mean you by this?" he asked.

The old man looked up blankly.

"I know not," said he. "I was to take it to Stephen the Watchdog,— that's all I know."

"Tell me who gave it you, then?"

"I can't tell you—a woman I didn't know."

"Where?"

"A bit this side o' Dorchester."

"That'll do. Thank you."

The ball was safely stored in Stephen's pocket, and he hastened to the Castle. At the gate he met his brother.

"Here's a pretty mess!" said Osbert. "There's Orme of the Fen run off, because I gave him a scolding for his impudence: and it is his turn to watch to-night. I have not a minute to go after him; I don't know whatever to do."

Stephen grasped the opportunity.

"I'll go after him for you, if you'll get me leave for a couple of days or more. I have a bit of business of my own I want to see to, and I can manage both at once—only don't tell Anania of it, or she'll worry the life out of me."

Osbert laughed.

"Make your mind easy!" said he. "Go in and get you ready, lad, and I'll see to get you the leave."

Stephen turned into the Castle, to fetch his cloak and make up a parcel of provisions, while Osbert went to the Earl, returning in a few minutes with leave of absence for Stephen. To the great satisfaction of the latter, Anania was not at home; so he plundered her larder, and set off, leaving Osbert to make his excuses, and to tell her just as much, or as little, as he found convenient. Stephen was sorely tempted to go first to Bensington, but he knew that both principle and policy directed the previous search for Orme. He found that exemplary gentleman, after an hour's search, drinking and gambling in a low ale-booth outside South Gate; and having first pumped on him to get him sober, he sent him off to his work with a lecture. Then, going a little way down Grandpont Street, he turned across Presthey, and coming out below Saint Edmund's Well, took the road to Bensington.

The journey was accomplished in much shorter time than on the previous occasion. As Stephen came up to the Witch's hut, he heard the sound of a low, monotonous voice; and being untroubled, at that period of the world's history, by any idea that eavesdropping was a dishonourable employment, he immediately applied his ear to the keyhole. To his great satisfaction, he recognised Ermine's voice. The words were these:—

"'I confess to Thee, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that Thou hiddest these things from the wise and prudent, and revealedst them unto little children. Even so, Father; for this was well-pleasing before Thee. All things are to Me delivered from My Father; and none knoweth the Son save the Father; neither the Father doth any know, save the Son, and he to whom the Son is willing to reveal Him. Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are burdened, and I will refresh you. Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me, for I am meek and lowly of heart; and ye shall find rest unto your souls.'"

"Did He say that, now, dearie?" asked the voice of the White Witch. "Eh, it sounds good—it does so! I'm burdened, saints knows; I'd like to find a bit o' rest and refreshing. Life's a heavy burden, and sin's a heavier; and there's a many things I see are sins now, that I never did afore you came. But how am I to know that He's willing?"

"Won't you come and see, Mother?" said Ermine softly.

"Husht! Bide a bit, my dear: there's a little sound at the door as I don't rightly understand. Maybe—"

In another moment the wicket opened, and Haldane's face looked out upon Stephen.

"Good evening, Mother!" said Stephen, holding up the ball of grey wool.

"Ay, you got it, did you? Come in—you're welcome."

"I hope I am," replied Stephen, going forward. Ermine was no longer hidden behind the screen, but seated on the form in the chimney-corner. On her calm fair brow there was no scar visible.

"Ay, ain't she a fine cure!" cried the old woman. "That's white mallows, that is, and just a pinch of—Well, I'd best tell no tales. But she's a grand cure; I don't hide her up now. Nobody'd ever guess nought, from the look of her, now, would folks? What think you?"

"No, I hope they wouldn't," answered Stephen: "leastwise they sha'n't if I can help it."

Haldane laid her hand on his arm impressively.

"Stephen, you must take her away."

"I'll take her fast enough, if she'll go, Mother; but why? I reckoned she was as safe here as she could be anywhere."

"She was," said Haldane significantly. "She won't be, presently. I don't tell my secrets: but the Wise Woman knows a thing or two. You'd best take her, and waste no time: but it must not be to Oxford. There's folks there would know her face."

"Ay, to be sure there are. Well, Mother, I'll do your bidding. Where'll she be safest?"

"You'd best be in London. It's the biggest place. And when a man wants to hide, he'll do it better in a large town than a little place, where every body knows his neighbour's business."

"All right!" said Stephen. "Ermine!"—and he went up to her—"will you go with me?"

Ermine lived in an age when it was a most extraordinary occurrence for a woman to have any power to dispose of herself in marriage, and such a thing was almost regarded as unnatural and improper. She held out her hand to Stephen.

"I will go where the Lord sends me," she said simply. "Dear Mother Haldane saved my life, and she has more right to dispose of me than any one else. Be it so."

"When folks are wed, they commonly have gifts made them," said Haldane with a smile. "I haven't much to give, and you'll think my gift a queer one: but I wish you'd take it, Ermine. It's Gib."

"I will take Gib and welcome, and be very thankful to you," answered Ermine in some surprise. "But, Mother Haldane, you are leaving yourself all alone. I was afraid you would miss me, after all these weeks, and if you lose Gib too, won't you be lonely?"

"Miss you!" repeated the old woman in a tremulous voice. "Miss you, my white bird that flew into my old arms from the cruel storm? Sha'n't I miss you? But it won't be for long. Ay! when one has kept company with the angels for a while, one's pretty like to miss them when they fly back home. But you'd best take Gib. The Wise Woman knows why. Only I don't tell all my secrets. And it won't be for long."

Haldane had been laying fresh sticks on the embers while she spoke. Now she turned to Stephen.

"She'd best have Gib," she said. "He's like another creature since she came. She'll take care of him. And you'll take care of her. I told you last time you were here as I'd do the best for her, not for you. But this is the best for both of you. And maybe the good Lord'll do the best for me. Ermine says He's not above keeping a poor old woman company. But whatever comes, and whatever you may hear, you bear in mind that I did my best for you."

"Ay, that I'm sure you've done, Mother," replied Stephen warmly. "As for Gib, I'll make him welcome for your sake; he looks rather comfortable now, so I think he'll get along."

It certainly was not too much to say that Gib was another creature. That once dilapidated-looking object, under Ermine's fostering care, had developed into a sleek, civilised, respectable cat; and as he sat on her lap, purring and blinking at the wood-fire, he suggested no ideas of discomfort.

"Ay, I've done my best," repeated the old woman with a sigh. "The Lord above, He knows I've done it. You'd best be off with the morning light. I can't be sure—Well, I mustn't tell my secrets."

Stephen was inclined to be amused with the Wise Woman's reiteration of this assertion. What fancy she had taken into her head he could not guess. It was some old-womanly whim, he supposed. If he could have guessed her reason for thus dismissing them in haste—if he had seen in the embers what she saw coming nearer and nearer, and now close to her very door—wild horses would not have carried Stephen away from the woman who had saved Ermine.

Haldane's bidding was obeyed. The dawn had scarcely broken on the following morning, when Stephen and Ermine, with Gib in the arms of the latter, set forth on their journey to London. Haldane stood in her doorway to watch them go.

"Thank God!" she said, when she had entirely lost sight of them. "Thank God, my darling is safe! I can bear anything that comes now. It is only what such as me have to look for. And Ermine said the good Lord wouldn't fail them that trusted Him. I'm only a poor ignorant old woman, and He knows it; but He took the pains to make me, and He'll not have forgot it; and Ermine says He died for me, and I'm sure He could never forget that, if He did it. I've done a many ill things, though I'm not the black witch they reckon me: no, I've had more laid to my charge than ever I did; but for all that I'm a sinner, I'm afeared, and I should be sore afeared to meet what's coming if He wouldn't take my side. But Ermine, she said He would, if I trusted myself to Him."

Haldane clasped her withered hands and looked heavenwards.

"Good Lord!" she said, "I'd fain have Thee on my side, and I do trust Thee. And if I'm doing it wrong way about, bethink Thee that I'm only a poor old woman, that never had no chance like, and I mean to do right, and do put things to rights for me, as Thou wouldst have 'em. Have a care of my darling, and see her safe: and see me through what's coming, if Thou wilt be so good. Worlds o' worlds, Amen."

That conclusion was Haldane's misty idea of the proper way to end a prayer [Note 1]. Perhaps the poor petition found its way above the stars as readily as the choral services that were then being chanted in the perfumed cathedrals throughout England.

She went in and shut the door. She did not, as usual, shake her straw bed and fold up the rug. A spectator might have thought that she had no heart for it. She only kept up the fire; for though summer was near, it was not over-warm in the crazy hut, and a cold east wind was blowing. For the whole of the long day she sat beside it, only now and then rising to look out of the window, and generally returning to her seat with a muttered exclamation of "Not yet!" The last time she did this, she pulled the faded woollen kerchief over her shoulders with a shiver.

"Not yet! I reckon they'll wait till it's dusk. Well! all the better: they'll have more time to get safe away."

The pronouns did not refer to the same persons, but Haldane made no attempt to specify them.

She sat still after that, nodding at intervals, and she was almost asleep when the thing that she had feared came upon her. A low sound, like and yet unlike the noise of distant thunder, broke upon her ear. She sat up, wide awake in a moment.

"They're coming! Good Lord, help me through! Don't let it be very bad to bear, and don't let it be long!"

Ten minutes had not passed when the hut was surrounded by a crowd. An angry crowd, armed with sticks, pitchforks, or anything that could be turned into a weapon—an abusive crowd, from whose lips words of hate and scorn were pouring, mixed with profaner language.

"Pull the witch out! Stone her! drown her! burn her!" echoed on all sides.

"Good Lord, don't let them burn me!" said poor old Haldane, inside the hut. "I'd rather be drowned, if Thou dost not mind."

Did the good Lord not mind what became of the helpless old creature, who, in her ignorance and misery, was putting her trust in Him? It looked like it, as the mob broke open the frail door, and roughly hauled out the frailer occupant of the wretched hut.

"Burn her!" The cry was renewed: and it came from one of the two persons most prominent in the mob—that handsome girl to whom Haldane had refused the revenge she coveted upon Brichtiva.

"Nay!" said the other, who was the Bishop's sumner, "that would be irregular. Burning's for heretics. Tie her hands and feet together, and cast her into the pond: that's the proper way to serve witches."

The rough boys among the crowd, to whom the whole scene was sport—and though we have become more civilised in some ways as time has passed, sport has retained much of its original savagery even now—gleefully tied together Haldane's hands and feet, and carried her, thus secured, to a large deep pond about a hundred yards from her abode.

This was the authorised test for a witch. If she sank and was drowned, she was innocent of the charge of witchcraft; if she swam on the surface, she was guilty, and liable to the legal penalty for her crime. Either way, in nine out of ten cases, the end was death: for very few thought of troubling themselves to save one who proved her innocence after this fashion. [Note 2.]

The boys, having thus bound the poor old woman into a ball, lifted her up, and with a cry of—"One—two—three!" flung her into the pond. At that moment a man broke through the ring that had formed outside the principal actors.

"What are you doing now? Some sort of mischief you're at, I'll be bound—you lads are always up to it. Who are you ducking? If it's that cheat Wrangecoke, I'll not meddle, only don't—What, Mother Haldane! Shame on you! Colgrim, Walding, Oselach, Amfrid!—shame on you! What, you, Erenbald, that she healed of that bad leg that laid you up for three months! And you, Baderun, whose child she brought back well-nigh from the grave itself! If you are men, and not demons, come and help me to free her!"

The speaker did not content himself with words. He had waded into the pond, and was feeling his way carefully to the spot where the victim was. For Mother Haldane had not struggled nor even protested, but according to all the unwritten laws relating to witchcraft, had triumphantly exhibited her innocence by sinking to the bottom like a stone. The two spectators whom he had last apostrophised joined him in a shamefaced manner, one muttering something about his desire to avoid suspicion of being in league with a witch, and the other that he "didn't mean no harm:" and among them, amid the more or less discontented murmurs of those around, they at last dragged out the old woman, untied the cords, and laid her on the grass. The life was yet in her; but it was nearly gone.

"Who's got a sup of anything to bring her to?" demanded her rescuer. "She's not gone; she opened her eyes then."

The time-honoured remedies for drowning were applied. The old woman was set on her head "to let the water run out;" and somebody in the crowd having produced a flask of wine, an endeavour was made to induce her to swallow. Consciousness partially returned, but Haldane did not seem to recognise any one.

"Don't be feared, Mother," said the man who had saved her. "I'll look after you. Don't you know me? I am Wigan, son of Egglas the charcoal-burner, in the wood."

Then Mother Haldane spoke,—slowly, with pauses, and as if in a dream.

"Ay, He looked after me. Did all—I asked. He kept them—safe, and— didn't let it—be long."

She added two words, which some of her hearers said were—"Good night." A few thought them rather, "Good Lord!"

Nobody understood her meaning. Only He knew it, who had kept safe the two beings whom Mother Haldane loved, and had not let the hour of her trial and suffering be long.

And then, when the words had died away in one last sobbing sigh, Wigan the son of Egglas stood up from the side of the dead, and spoke to the gazing and now silent multitude.

"You can go home," he said. "You've had your revenge. And what was it for? How many of you were there that she had not helped and healed? Which of you did she ever turn away unhelped, save when the malady was beyond her power, or when one came to her for aid to do an evil thing? Men, women, lads! you've repeated the deed of Iscariot this day, for you've betrayed innocent blood—you have slain your benefactor and friend. Go home and ask God and the saints to forgive you—if they ever can. How they sit calm above yonder, and stand this world, is more than I can tell.—Poor, harmless, kindly soul! may God comfort thee in His blessed Heaven! And for them that have harried thee, and taken thy life, and have the black brand of murder on their souls, God pardon them as He may!"

The crowd dispersed silently and slowly. Some among them, who had been more thoughtless than malicious, were already beginning to realise that Wigan's words were true. The sumner, however, marched away whistling a tune. Then Wigan, with his shamefaced helpers, Erenbald and Baderun, and a fourth who had come near them as if he too were sorry for the evil which he had helped to do, inasmuch as he had not stood out to prevent its being done, lifted the frail light corpse, and bore it a little way into the wood. There, in the soft fresh green, they dug a grave, and laid in it the body of Mother Haldane.

"We'd best lay a cross of witch hazel over her," suggested Baderun. "If things was all right with her, it can't do no harm; and if so be—"

"Lay what you like," answered Wigan. "I don't believe, and never did, that she was a witch. What harm did you ever know her do to any one?"

"Nay, but Mildred o' th' Farm, over yonder, told me her black cow stopped giving milk the night Mother Haldane came up to ask for a sup o' broth, and she denied it."

"Ay, and Hesela by the Brook—I heard her tell," added Erenbald, "that her hens, that hadn't laid them six weeks or more, started laying like mad the day after she'd given the White Witch a gavache. What call you that?"

"I call it stuff and nonsense," replied Wigan sturdily, "save that both of them got what they deserved: and so being, I reckon that God, who rewards both the righteous and the wicked, had more to do with it than the White Witch."

"Eh, Wigan, but them's downright wicked words! You'd never go to say as God Almighty takes note o' hens, and cows, and such like?"

"Who does, then? How come we to have any eggs and milk?"

"Why, man, that's natur'."

"I heard a man on Bensington Green, one day last year," answered Wigan, "talking of such things; and he said that 'nature' was only a fool's word for God. And said I to myself, That's reason."

Wigan, being one of that very rare class who think for themselves, was not comprehended by his commissionary tours, had been to this man's heart as a match to tinder.

"Ay, and he said a deal more too: but it wouldn't be much use telling you. There—that's enough. She'll sleep quiet there. I'll just go round by her hut, and see if her cat's there—no need to leave the creature to starve."

"Eh, Wigan, you'd never take that thing into your house? It's her familiar, don't you know? They always be, them black cats—they're worse than the witches themselves."

"Specially when they aren't black, like this? I tell you, she wasn't a witch; and as to the cat, thou foolish man, it's nought more nor less than a cat. I'll take it home to Brichtiva my wife,—she's not so white-livered as thou."

"Eh, Wigan, you'll be sorry one o' these days!"

"I'm as sorry now as I can be, that I didn't come up sooner: and I don't look to be sorry for aught else."

Wigan went off to the empty hut. But all his coaxing calls of "Puss, puss!" proved vain. Gib was in Ermine's arms; and Ermine was travelling towards London in a heavy carrier's waggon, with Stephen on horseback alongside. He gave up the search at last, and went home; charging Brichtiva that if Gib should make a call on her, she was to be careful to extend to him an amount of hospitality which would induce him to remain.

But Gib was never seen in the neighbourhood of Bensington again.

"What wonder?" said Erenbald. "The thing was no cat—it was a foul fiend; and having been released from the service of its earthly mistress, had returned as a matter of course to Satan its master."

This conclusion was so patent to every one of his neighbours that nobody dreamed of questioning it. Morally speaking, there is no blindness so hopelessly incurable as that of the man who is determined to keep his eyes shut. Only the Great Physician can heal such a case as this, and He has often to do it by painful means.

"Christ save you!" said Isel, coming into the anchorhold one evening, a fortnight after Stephen's disappearance. "Well, you do look quiet and peaceful for sure! and I'm that tired!—"

"Mother, I am afraid you miss me sadly," responded Derette, almost self-reproachfully.

"I'm pleased enough to think you're out of it, child. Miss you? Well, I suppose I do; but I haven't scarce time to think what I miss. There's one thing I'd miss with very great willingness, I can tell you, and that's that horrid tease, Anania. She's been at me now every day this week, and she will make me tell her where Stephen is, and what he's gone after,—and that broom knows as much as I do. She grinds the life out of me, pretty nigh: and what am I to do?"

Derette smiled sympathetically. Leuesa said—

"It does seem strange he should stay so long away."

"Anania will have it he is never coming again."

"I dare say she is right there," said Derette suddenly.

"Saints alive! what dost thou mean, child? Never coming again?"

"I shouldn't wonder," said Derette quietly.

"Well, I should. I should wonder more than a little, I can tell you. Whatever gives you that fancy, child?"

"I have it, Mother; why I cannot tell you."

"I hope you are not a prophetess!"

"I don't think I am," said Derette with a smile.

"I think Ermine was a bit of one, poor soul! She seemed to have some notion what was coming to her. Eh, Derette! I'd give my best gown to know those poor things were out of Purgatory. Father Dolfin says we shouldn't pray for them: but I do—I can't help it. If I were a priest, I'd say mass for them every day I lived—ay, I would! I never could understand why we must not pray for heretics. Seems to me, the more wrong they've gone, the more they want praying for. Not that they went far wrong—I'll not believe it. Derette, dost thou ever pray for the poor souls?"

"Ay, Mother: every one of them."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it. And as to them that ill-used them, let them look to themselves. Maybe they'll not find themselves at last in such a comfortable place as they look for. The good Lord may think that cruelty to Christian blood [Note 3]—and they were Christian blood, no man can deny—isn't so very much better than heresy after all. Hope he does."

"I remember Gerard's saying," replied Derette, "that all the heresies in the world were only men's perversions of God's truths: and that if men would but keep close to Holy Scripture, there would be no heresies."

"Well, it sounds like reason, doesn't it?" answered Isel with a sigh.

"But I remember his saying also," pursued Derette, "that where one man followed reason and Scripture, ten listened to other men's voices, and ten more to their own fancies."

Dusk was approaching on the following day, when a rap came on the door of the anchorhold, and a voice said—

"Leuesa, pray you, ask my cousin to come to the casement a moment."

"Stephen!" cried Derette, hurrying to her little window when she heard his voice. "So you have come back!"

"Shall I go now, Lady, for the fresh fish?" asked Leuesa, very conveniently for Stephen, who wondered if she good-naturedly guessed that he had a private communication to make.

"Do," said Derette, giving her three silver pennies.

As soon as Leuesa was out of hearing, Stephen said—"I am only here for a few hours, Derette, and nobody knows it save my Lord, you, and my brother. I have obtained my discharge, and return to London with the dawn."

"Are you not meaning to come back, Stephen? Folks are saying that."

"Folks are saying truth. I shall live in London henceforth. But remember, Derette, that is a secret."

"I shall not utter it, Stephen. Truly, I wish you all happiness, but I cannot help being sorry."

There were tears in Derette's eyes. Stephen had ever been more brotherly to her than her own brothers. It was Stephen who had begged her off from many a punishment, had helped her over many a difficulty, had made her rush baskets and wooden boats, and had always had a sweetmeat in his pocket for her in childhood. She was grieved to think of losing him.

"You may well wish me happiness in my honeymoon," he said, laughingly.

"Are you married? Why, when—O Stephen, Stephen! is it Ermine?"

"You are a first-rate guesser, little one. Yes, I have Ermine safe; and I will keep her so, God helping me."

"I am so glad, Steenie!" said Derette, falling into the use of the old pet name, generally laid aside now. "Tell Ermine I am so glad to hear that, and so sorry to lose you both: but I will pray God and the saints to bless you as long as I live, and that will be better for you than our meeting, though it will not be the same thing to me."

"'So glad, and so sorry!' It seems to me, Cousin, that's no inapt picture of life. God keep thee!—to the day when—Ermine says—it will be all 'glad' and no 'sorry.'"

"Ay, we shall meet one day. Farewell!"

The days passed, and no more was seen or heard of Stephen in Oxford. What had become of him was not known at the Walnut Tree, until one evening when Osbert looked in about supper-time, and was invited to stay for the meal, with the three of whom the family now consisted—Manning, Isel, and Haimet. As Isel set on the table a platter of little pies, she said—

"There, that's what poor Stephen used to like so well. Maybe you'll fancy them too, Osbert."

"Why do you call him poor Stephen?" questioned Osbert, as he appropriated a pie. "He is not particularly poor, so far as I know."

"Well, we've lost him like," said Isel, with a sigh. "When folks vanish out of your sight like snow in a thaw, one cannot help feeling sorry."

"Oh, I'm sorry for myself, more ways than one: but not so much for Stephen."

"Why, Osbert, do you know where he is, and what he's doing?"

"Will you promise not to let on to Anania, if I tell you?"

"Never a word that I can help, trust me."

"Her knowing matters nought, except that she'll never let me be if she thinks I have half a notion about it. Well, he's gone south somewhere— I don't justly know where, but I have a guess of London way."

"What for?"

"Dare say he had more reasons than he gave me. He told me he was going to be married."

"Dear saints!—who to?"

"Didn't ask him."

Isel sat looking at Osbert in astonishment, with a piece of pie transfixed on the end of her knife.

"You see, if I did not know, I shouldn't get so much bothered with folks asking me questions: so I thought I'd let it be."

That Osbert's "folks" might more properly be read "Anania," Isel knew full well.

"Saints love us!—but I would have got to know who was my sister-in-law, if I'd been in your place."

"To tell the truth, Aunt, I don't care, so long as she is a decent woman who will make Stephen comfortable; and I think he's old enough to look out for himself."

"But don't you know even what he was going to do?—seek another watch, or go into service, or take to trade, or what?"

"I don't know a word outside what I have just told you. Oh, he'll be all right! Stephen has nine lives, like a cat. He always falls on his feet."

"But it don't seem natural like!"

Osbert laughed. "I suppose it is natural to a woman to have more curiosity than a man. I never had much of that stuff. Anania's got enough for both."

"Well, I'm free to confess she has. Osbert, how do you manage her? I can't."

"Let her alone as long as I can, and take the mop to her when I can't," was the answer.

"I should think the mop isn't often out of your hand," observed Haimet with painful candour.

"It wears out by times," returned Osbert drily.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. "Into the worlds of worlds" is the Primer's translation of "in saecula saeculorum."

Note 2. That witchcraft is no fable, but a real sin, which men have committed in past times, and may commit again, is certain from Holy Scripture. But undoubtedly, in the Middle Ages, numbers of persons suffered under accusation of this crime who were entirely innocent: and the so-called "white witches" were in reality mere herbalists and dealers in foolish but harmless charms, often consisting in a kind of nursery rhyme and a few Biblical words.

Note 3. The wrong of cruelty to men and women, as such, whether they were Christians or not, had not dawned on men's minds in the twelfth century, nor did it till the Reformation. But much pity was often expressed for the sufferings of "Christian blood," and a very few persons had some compassion for animals.



CHAPTER TEN.

BARRIERS IN THE WAY.

"Christ is my readiness: who lives in Him Can scarcely be unready."

S.W. Partridge.

A little way out of Dorchester, surrounded by pollard willow trees, and on a narrow slip of ground which sloped down towards the river, stood a tiny mud hut, the inhabitants of which lived in great misery even for that time. One small chamber, with a smaller lean-to, constituted the whole dwelling. As to furniture, a modern eye, glancing round, would have said there was none. There was a bundle of rags, covering a heap of straw, in one corner; and in another was a broken bench, which with a little contrivance might have seated three persons of accommodating tempers. A hole in the roof let out the smoke—when it chose to go; and let in the rain and snow, which generally chose to come. On a niche in the wall stood a single pan, an axe, and a battered tin bowl, which comprised all the family riches. The axe was the tool which obtained bread—and very little of it; the pan did all the cooking; the bowl served for pail, jug, and drinking-vessel. An iron socket let into the wall held a piece of half-burnt pinewood, which was lamp and candle to the whole house. A handful of chips of wood, branches, and dried leaves, in one corner, represented the fuel; and a heap of snow underneath the hole showed that its influence was not potent.