Then truly the feminine soul of this woman leapt to the surface with

no more ado.

"Oh, my God, Harry!" she cried out. "I care not for my grandmother,

nor my sister, nor the king, nor Nathaniel Bacon, nor aught, nor

aught--I fear, I fear--Oh, I fear lest thou be killed, Harry!"

"Lest my dead body be brought home to thy door, and the accusation

of having furnished a traitor to the king be laid to thee, Madam?" I

said, for not one whit believed I in her love for me. But she only

sobbed in a distracted fashion.

"Fear not, Madam," I said, "if the militia be out, and I fall, it

will go hard that I die before I have time to forswear myself yet

again for the sake of thy family. But, I pray thee, keep to thyself

for the sake of all."

With that I was in my saddle and rode away, for I had lingered, I

feared, too long, and as God is my witness I had no faith that

Catherine Cavendish did more than assume such interest in me for her

own ends, for love, as I conceived it, was not thus.

I hastened on my way to Barry Upper Branch, where was the

rendezvous, and on my way had to pass the house where dwelt that

woman of strange repute, Margery Key, and it was naught but a

solidity of shadow beside the road except for a glimmer of white

from the breast of her cat in the doorway. But as I live, as I rode

past, a voice came from that house, though how she knew me in that

gloom I know not.

"Good speed to thee, Master Wingfield, and the fagots that thou

didst gather for the despised and poor shall turn into blessings,

like bars of silver. That which thou hast given, hast thou forever.

Go on and fear not, and strike for liberty, and no harm shall come

nigh thee." As she spoke I saw the bent back of the poor old crone

in the doorway beside her cat, and partly because of her blessing,

and partly because, as I said before, whether witch or not, she was

aged and feeble, and ill fitted for such work, I leapt from my

saddle and gathered her another armful of fagots, and laid them on

her hearth. I left the old soul shedding such tears of gratitude

over that slight service and calling down such childish blessings

upon my head that I began to have little doubt that she was no

witch, but only a poor and solitary old woman, which to my mind is

the forlornest state of humanity. How a man fares without those of

his own flesh and blood I can understand, since a man must needs

have some comfort in his own endurance of hardships, but what a

woman can do without chick or child, and no solace in her own

dependency, I know not. Verily I know not that such be to blame if

they turn to Satan himself for a protector, as they suspected

Margery Key of doing.




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