Martin went swiftly forward over the Common; Hilarius and the Friar followed more slowly, and when they came to the Cattle Gate they stood fast and waited, the Friar turning his head anxiously and straining to make his ears do a double service.
Hilarius, who had hitherto regarded Bungay and the Friar's business as the last stage of his journey to Wymondham and Brother Andreas, was full of foreboding; he watched Martin on the outskirts of the crowd, saw him throw up his hands with an angry gesture and point to the Friar. Then he fell to parleying with the people, but Hilarius was too far off to catch what was said.
"See there, 'tis her son," Martin was saying vehemently; "yon holy friar hath seen this thing in a vision, but alack! he reads it otherwise; yea, and hath hasted hither from overseas to wrestle with the Evil One for his mother's soul - and now, and now - "
The crowd parted, and he saw the most miserable sight. An old woman lay on the ground by the river's edge; a bundle of filthy water-logged rags crowned by a bruised, vindictive face and grey hair smeared with filth and slime. She lay on her back a shapeless huddle; her right thumb tied to her left toe and so across: there was a rope about her middle, but in their hot haste they had not stayed to strip her.
Martin pressed forward, and then turning to the jeering, vengeful crowd:
"By Christ's Rood, this is an evil work ye have wrought," he said.
"Nay," said one of the bystanders, "but it was fair judgment, Minstrel. For years she hath worked her spells and black arts in this place, ay, and cattle have perished and women gone barren through her means. Near two days agone a child was lost and seen last near her door, ay, and never seen again. When we came to question her she cursed at us for meddling mischief-makers, and would but glare and spit, and swear she knew naught of the misbegotten brat."
"Maybe 'twas true eno'," said Martin. "I hate these rough-cast witch-findings - 'tis not a matter for man's judgment, unless 'tis sworn and proven in court before the Justiciary."
"Nay," joined in an old man, "what need of a Justice when God speaks? We did but thole her to the river to see if she would sink or swim. The witch did swim, as all can testify, her Master helping her; and seeing that, we drew her under - ay, and see her now as she lies, and say whether the Devil hath not set a mark on his own?"
Martin wrung his hands.
"For the love of Christ, lay her decently on her pallet, and say no word of this to yon holy man."
Moved by his earnest manner, one or two more kindly folk busied themselves unfastening the ropes and thongs which bound the witch, and bore her to her wretched bed.
The people, in their previous eagerness, had torn down the front of the miserable hovel she called home, so all men could see the poor place and its dead dishonoured mistress.
Martin, finding his bidding accomplished, turned to meet Hilarius and the Friar who were now coming slowly across the windswept common. March mists gathered and draped the sluggish river; the dry reeds rattled dismally in the ooze and sedge. Hilarius shivered, and the Friar started nervously when Martin spoke.
"Friar," he said, "God comfort thee! After all thy pains thou art too late to speed thy mother's soul; she passed to-day, and lies even now awaiting burial at thy faithful hands."
The Friar drew a quick breath, and Hilarius questioned Martin with a look. The crowd parted to let them through, and hung their heads abashed in painful silence as the Friar, led by Hilarius, gave his blessing.
They were close to the mean hovel now, and he turned to Martin.
"Didst thou hear of her end, or did she die alone, for the people feared her?"
"Ay, she died alone," answered Martin, and muttered, "now God forgive me!" under his breath.
