"I like it not for my sake and thine," she said in a low tone.

"Let's hear the reason on thy part," said Sir Mark, laughing.

"It is the day they burn that wicked woman; and it troubles me that we should go to church at such a time."

"The day of a good deed, love," he said. "Now the other, for my sake."

"Have you not thought," she said, pressing closer to him, heedless of the fact that they were watched.

"I thought? Yes, that it is the most blessed day in the calendar."

"Nay; but have you not thought what day it is?"

"Not I. Saint Somebody-or-another's--some Christian martyr's, perhaps; and we'll give him a burnt sacrifice of bad witch to satisfy his manes."

"Mark, it is the anniversary of the day that was to have seen you a husband; me a broken-hearted girl."

Sir Mark started and changed colour. He was troubled, for it seemed a bad augury that such a day should have been chosen, but he lightly put it aside.

"Never mind, love; it was an accident, and can make no difference now.

Besides, the matter is settled, and if we picked the days over we should find each the anniversary of some troubled time."

Anne Beckley was disappointed, but she made no more objection, and they rode soon after through the avenue and over the bridge, beneath which the great carp gaped and stared with their big round eyes in unconscious imitation of their master, the wise dispenser of King James's justice, and keeper of the peace.

Volume 3, Chapter XII.

HOW MISTRESS ANNE WATCHED AND FEARED.

Early morning, as bright and glowing autumn time as ever shone over the weald of Sussex. The harvest was gathered in; the trees were heavy beneath the red and golden crop of apples, and in hedgerow and plantation the brown and cream-husked nuts peered out in clusters from the leafy stubs.

There was a suspicion here and there of the coming fall, but only in bright touches of beauty--golds, and russets, and reds--bloody crimson, and orange scarlet, where the sun-kissed leaves yet burned beneath the caresses of the ardent god. The sky above was of the richest, purest blue, and the eye rested on naught but beauty, so long as it kept to nature, and not to art, for winding along the narrow lane towards Roehurst was a procession of armed men, preceding and following a rough country tumbril, drawn by a clumsy horse. The load was apparently a heap of shabby garments, dropped in one corner of the cart.

But the crowd that pressed upon the armed men, striving to get a glimpse of the interior of the vehicle, could see that the bundle of clothes in the cart moved slightly from time to time, lifting a thin white hand and letting it fall heavily once more; and as they buzzed, and talked, and shouted to one another, they made out further that there was a grey head raised from the heap, and a white, scared face looked round partly in wonder, partly seeking for pity, as its owner seemed to realise her position, and then crouched lower and lower as she heard shouts and voices crying out the words, "Mother Goodhugh! Witch! The stake, the stake!"

The escort took the pressure of the eager little crowd very good-humouredly, but had to keep waving the sight-seers back, or some would have been trampled beneath the horse's feet, and as it was the procession was greatly delayed.

"I don't believe they'll burn her after all," said one rough specimen of a peasant to another.

"Nay, they will. Stake be all ready, and faggots enough to burn a dozen such witches as old Mother there."

"I'll believe it when I see it, lad. See if she don't go off in a flash, or else make the rain come so as the faggots won't burn. Nay, lad, she won't be done for yet. Look there. Did'st see her wicked old eyes glowering round when she raised her head? Don't let her look at thee, or she'll put a curse in thy face."

"Ay, but she be a wicked looking one, and it will be a glad riddance for Roehurst when she be gone, for she did naught but curse."

"Mas' Cobbe ought to be glad to see her burnt, for she's cursed him oft enough, poor soul."

"But why don't they make haste? I want to see the burning, and then get back to the wedding games."

"Oh, they won't wed till Mother Goodhugh's all in ash, lad. See, there be the bridegroom. He be going to see it done."

"But what be they stopping for?"

"Don't know," said the other, climbing up the bank and holding on by the branch of a tree. "Why, it be parson come, and he be getting into the cart with Mother Goodhugh. Say, look there! He be gone down on his knees aside her, and takes her hand. Look out, parson, as she don't fly at thee like a cat."

But there was no cat-like spring in Mother Goodhugh, for torture and starvation had reduced her so that the little life left in her was likely to flutter away before the torch was placed to the faggots. As Master Peasegood laboriously clambered into the cart and knelt beside her, he took one of the poor wretch's wasted hands in his, and she raised her head to look up at him half-wonderingly, before letting it fall once more, and remaining apparently nerveless and flaccid, waiting for the end.

The procession passed within fifty yards of the Moat gate, where Anne Beckley was waiting--not to cry out in reviling tones against the wretched woman, but to see her pass, hidden awhile amidst the dense evergreens, and trembling lest she should be seen.

Anne Beckley's heart beat fast as the procession came nearer and nearer, and she crouched down trembling as she fancied that Mother Goodhugh must see her; while the cold dew stood upon her brow as she waited for the curses the old woman would fling upon her head.

But there was no curse hurled at her; there was the trampling of feet, and the buzz of many voices, beating hoofs, and grinding wheels coming nearer and nearer, till all appeared to stay close by, and Anne's heart seemed to stop its pulse as well.

She had come to see her enemy, and would gladly have witnessed the execution, only that she dared not express a wish so to do; and even now, so great was her trepidation, that in place of gazing at the broken, half-dead object in the cart, she shrank down lower and lower till the leaves completely sheltered her head.

What were they stopping for? Were they going to bring Mother Goodhugh there?

No: there had been no stoppage at all; it was only her fancy. They were going slowly on, and that was Master Peasegood's voice praying beside the wretched creature so near her end.

The buzzing and trampling seemed to grow louder and the grating of the wheels more defined, till it seemed to Anne as if they would never pass away; but they grew fainter at last, and after some ten minutes of agony she hurried out of the clump of shrubs, and hastened to her room, too faint and heartsick to think of dressing for the ceremony to come.

Sir Mark and his men would be at the execution she knew, and when he returned it would be a signal to her that her enemy was no more, and she told herself that she would be able to go to the little church with a lighter heart.

In imagination she followed the procession to the narrow lane, and up to the front of Mother Goodhugh's cottage, where the great stake had been placed. She saw the wretched woman bound there, the faggots fired, and seemed to hear her shrieks as she waved her hands and wildly cursed those around. Now she strained at the chain, and strove to tear it away as it grew red hot and burned into her thin white flesh, while the flames rose higher and higher, the faggots crackled, and she even fancied that she could hear the shouting of the people.

How the smoke curled up, half suffocating her at times, and making her hang her head as if dead! Then it was swept away, and the flames rose higher, half hiding the hideously contorted face with a ruddy lurid veil. The flames fluttered and danced, and seemed to Anne as if rejoicing at their task of purifying the earth from the presence of a witch. Then the smoke rose higher, till it formed a heavy canopy above the stake, while the flames played wildly on its lower surface.

Again the flames opened to reveal the figure of Mother Goodhugh. She had ceased to curse now, and with blackened, outstretched hands was appealing to her executioners to set her free.

As she did so Anne started forward with a wild cry.

"It is too horrible--too horrible!" she shrieked. "Father, father, save her before it is too late!" and then, overpowered by the imaginary scene she had conjured up, she tottered a step or two, and sank fainting upon the floor.

Volume 3, Chapter XIII.

HOW THE WITCH-FAGGOTS WERE FIRED.

The scene at the execution was different from that which Anne Beckley painted in her mind. The cart, with its helpless burden, went slowly on, bumping up and down through the ruts of the narrow lane, and the armed escort patiently bore the pressure of the increasing crowd. For every hamlet for ten or fifteen miles round had sent its occupants to see the double show, and every bank and hillock had its gazing faces; while, as the procession drew near to the stake, with its terrible adjuncts, the cart had some difficulty in getting through.

The crowd gave way, however, to the escort, who pushed them back till a circle was made about the stake, in the midst of which stood Sir Thomas, Sir Mark, and the armed men.

As the cart stopped, Master Peasegood descended, wiping his bare wet forehead, and stood gazing with pallid face as four of the men pressed forward and roughly lifted the condemned woman to the earth.

"Be gentle, men, be gentle," he cried, in tones of remonstrance. "It is a woman with whom ye have to deal."

"A witch--a foul witch--thou mean'st," said one of the men; and there was a yell of execration from the crowd.

"Silence!" roared Master Peasegood, furiously. "Are ye brute beasts, or men, women, and children? Ah, Master Cobbe, are you there?" he cried.

"Can nothing be done to save this poor creature here?"