CHAPTER XXXII
A JOURNEY
THEY lay for a month in prison in London. Then, all procedures havingbeen met, the law would return them to the county where they hadoffended and the gaol from which they had broken and the gallows fieldwhich had waited six years.
They rode from London in company of a sheriff and a dozen horsemen,and they went by the road which Aderhold had travelled years before.He recognised this place and that. Where the ways were bad—and theywere often bad—they dismounted and went afoot. So many were withthem and so no danger at all was there of escape, that they were leftunshackled, were even let to draw a little to themselves. At first theguard was rough of tongue, ready with frequent, unneeded commands,ready with coarse gibes. But the two answered quietly, or were silentwithout sullenness, and there was something in them that gave check....At last the men conveyed them without insult, without much furtherspeech to them direct. At night, when they came to town or village,they were lodged in the gaol. When they passed where there were people,and if it became known what manner of felons were here, they met withsavage jeers and execrations. Sometimes mud was thrown, sometimesflints. But it was not the guard’s cue to tell names and offence—andEngland was not as populous then as now—and there were long milesof lonely peace. To Joan and Aderhold they seemed at times miles ofa beautiful, a sunny peace. They knew how to talk together with fewwords, with a glance of the eye. And there were many times when, somespace allowed them and the guards talking among themselves, the roadbecame as it were their own. Then they spoke freely, though with lowvoices.
It was late summer, with autumn well in view upon the slope of theyear. The landscape was growing russet, and none the less fair forthat. And it was England—England after the blue plains of the sea andthe low, coral isles. And it was country and pure air after the fetidLondon prison. And it was the land where they were born—it was home,seen after years away. These green fields and spreading trees—thisEnglish sky—these birds and flowers and crystal streams—these wereno foes of theirs. These had never cast them out. Here as elsewhere,the great round earth had its own orthodoxy, but took scant heed ofman’s.... They saw England after long absence; and for all that theywere to be slain here, they could find it beautiful, and for all thatthey knew where ended this road, they played with the happenings uponit.
Twenty miles out from London the sheriff’s horse cast a shoe, and atthe next smithy all must halt until Grey Dick was shod. The smithystood in the pleasant shadow of an oak so great that it must havebeen growing when the Conqueror came over. The hot smithy fire glowedwithin, iron struck rhythmically against iron. Beyond the tree wasa well, and all were thirsty. They had not drawn bridle for severalhours. The men dismounted—the two prisoners were given leave to dolikewise, even to rest upon the earth beneath the oak.
The four children of the smith sat upon a log and watched with anintensity of interest horses and men and all their movements, and theman and woman half sitting, half lying beneath the oak. The smithy dogcame up to these two, snuffed around them, and then lay down at theirfeet. _Clink! Clink!_ and the trees began to wave in an afternoonbreeze, and the voices of the men about the well and the smithy doorsounded cheerful and hardy. The two had no misliking for the brightworld. They sat watching the children.... The youngest child, ayellow-haired mite of three, would make an excursion of its own fromthe log, past the oak, to the door. In the course of the journey itcame upon a protruding root, stumbled over it and fell. Joan sprangforward and lifted it to its feet. “There, there! You’re not hurt—Lookat the pretty flower you fell against!” The child decided not to cry,laughed instead. Joan’s arm curved about the sturdy small form andpressed it to her. “Ah, what a good baby!”—The child was willing tostay and play, but with suddenness found herself released, given agentle push back toward the three upon the log. Joan took her seatagain upon the turf. “It wasn’t wise to touch her. It’s strange that itshould be so, but if any saw they might bring it against her when sheis grown.”
She spoke without any pain for herself in her voice, but with yearningand tenderness for the child. “Now she’s there and happy! She’s got astick to play with.”
“Joan, Joan!” said Aderhold. “There will come a day—”
The horse was shod, the well-water drunk, guard and prisoners tookagain the road. The smith and his man had, at the last, their curiositysatisfied. “Witches and wizards!—Nay, if I had known that—”
The road presented its stream, here full, here very thin, of autumntravel. Little pictures and the whole picture had a clear, a vividinterest. Market people went by, drovers with cattle, sturdy beggars,children, country girls and swains, carters and their carts, mountedtravel of merchants or justices or churchmen or country gentlemen.The mounted travel would always, authoritatively, have its curiositygratified. “A ward with prisoners!—Who are your prisoners,sheriff?” The second morning it was a party of young gallants whowould know this. They wore feathered hats, fine riding-clothes,boots of soft leather, their hair somewhat long and curled. Theywere for King and Church—would all live, perhaps, to fight on thatside. “Prisoners! What are your prisoners, sirrah!” Then, when theyknew,—“Witch! Witch! A young witch, too! Let’s see her—Zounds!Who’s the man?... The Hawthorn two who fled! _Gilbert Aderhold—JoanHeron!_” Certain of these gallants had been in London and knew ofthe recapture. It had been common talk. The king had learned of it.“Joan Heron!—Joan Heron! Let’s see—let’s see! Grey eyes—goldhair—no, hair like bronze, pale bronze.... Would you dare to kiss awitch?”—“No!”—“Yes!”—“No!”—“Yes, I would!”—“To make the Deviljealous—that were a parlous thing!”—“Parlous or not, if she hath greyeyes and red lips—”—“Kiss her—clip her in thy arms and to-night shewill come as _succuba_ and kiss and clip thee! Then hark to thy roar,‘Avaunt, thou hag! Will none save me from the foul fiend?’”—“JoanHeron! Rememberest the ballad, THE DEVIL AND JOAN HERON?”—“But thou’rtnot called ‘Daredevil’ for naught!”—“Do you dare me?”—“Yes, yes! Wedare you!”—“Kiss her hard, clip her fast—No, no. Master Sheriff! Fairplay—make a ring!... Now! Now!”... “_Well, thou hast courage!_”...“_She did not struggle,—as do honest women or those who would bethought honest!_” “To-night, to-night, when thou hast put out thelight, look to find her!”—“Ha, ha! ha, ha! JOAN HERON—”
They won away from those of the feathered hats. Space widened betweenthe two cavalcades, the voices of the gallants died from the ear. Theroad lay bright and sunny, the morning air blew fresh and sweet. Thegreat earth swept calm to the horizon, the sky sprang, a pure andcloudless arch. For a long way the road ran lonely of travellers otherthan the sheriff, his men, and the prisoners. Joan and Aderhold, ridingtogether, talked in low tones. After a time they were passing througha forest. They loved the brown earth and the bracken, the boughsoverhead, the purple distances.
“I remember this wood,” said Aderhold. “I lay and rested underthese trees and wondered what was before me.... And I could not see_thee_.—I did not know the lovely thing that was before me.”
“And that night, at home, I slept and dreamed—and saw not thee.”
“There are glories in our lives. With every pain and sorrow counted in,we have not been unhappy.”
“No. Pain did not win. And the light was brighter yesterday than theday before, and brighter to-day than yesterday.... Look at the birdflying up!”
The third night the troop did not arrive, in time for rest, at anytown or village. A heavy rain had fallen and delayed progress. Theycame at dark to three or four mean houses, clustered around one ofbetter proportions, an inn by the sign just made out through the duskand the autumn mists. There was not much to eat, but it might be madeto do—straw could be shaken down—there was a great fireplace whereblazing warmth might be had.... To Joan and Aderhold, accustomed tothe sun, good was this warmth! There was one great stone-flagged room,large as a baron’s hall. When the dozen men of their guard disposedthemselves, there was yet space where the
ruddy glow might reach them,dry their clothing wet with the rain, warm their bodies. Where therewas not overmuch for any, their portion of supper was small, indeed,but it sufficed. When all would sleep, lying about the fire upon thestraw which the inn’s servitors brought in, the two were thrust to acorner at the far end of the place, farthest from the door. A watch wasset—a stanch man relieved each two hours by another. The sheriff meantno slipping of the wizard and witch out of his fingers. But sleepingtime was not yet come. The two sat to one side, watched, but no moreclosely than was thought necessary.
Beside the sheriff and his men there were the host and hostess, threeor four uncouth serving-men and maids, and one other traveller, belatedlike the rest. This was a gentle-faced old man, the parson, it waslearned, of a parish a dozen miles away.... The night before, in a townof fair size, the names of his prisoners becoming known, the sheriffhad had trouble to rescue them from the mob that gathered. This day,therefore, he would keep secret the full heinousness of the pair—alongthe way and here it was said only that they were a man and womanaccused of witchcraft and apostasy, being transferred from one gaol toanother.
Under this description the inn folk looked aside at them with greatcuriosity and fear. At supper time none could be found willing tocarry to them from the kitchen their bit of coarse bread and pitcherof water. The host was busied elsewhere; the hostess put down her footthat she would not; the men and maids laughed vacantly and stared, butwould not budge in that direction. The old man, the parson, who chancedto be by, uttered a word of gentle chiding, then, as all still hungback, himself picked up the bread and water and carried them to thetwo. They thanked him. He stood looking at them with a gentle, painedface. Called to supper at the long table where the sheriff and his menwere noisily taking places, he went away. But presently, his own frugalmeal quickly made, he came back. Theirs, too, was made. They wereseated on the stone flooring, shoulder against the wall, hand touchinghand. They had no look of wicked folk.
The old man found a stool, brought it and sat down beside them. “Youlook worn and tired. The roads have been bad to-day.”
He spoke to Joan. “Bad here and there,” she said. “We are a littletired.”
The old man sat looking from one to the other. Then he spoke withsimplicity. “Is it true that you are apostates from religion?”
“What,” said Aderhold, “is religion?—Is it love of good? Then, withour hand in death’s, I dare aver that we are not apostates!” He smiledat the old man. “Since we entered this room you have shown us a pieceof religion.”
“I would show you truly,” said the old man earnestly. “I would show youJesus.”
Aderhold answered gently. “You do so, sir. Believe that all of us knowJesus when we meet him.”
The old man looked from one to the other. “You do not seem to me wickedpeople. I know not how it is, but you seem—” The sheriff and his menrose noisily from table. There immediately ensued a bustle in theplace—boards and trestles being taken away—bundles of straw broughtin—men going forth to look after the horses—men coming in with thebreath of the wet night. One came and called the old parson, drew himaway toward the small inner room where he was to rest. Going, he saidbut one word more to the two. “Good-night. I wish you good sleep.”
The host who had called him held up his hands. “Reverend sir, I marvelhow you can stand to talk with such miscreants—”
Joan and Aderhold lay upon the stone floor and slept.... Night passed,the rain ceased, the clouds broke, dawn came with magnificence. Theold parson, approaching, too, in the course of nature, his death hour,slept on like a child in the inner room. But Joan and Aderhold wentforward with the guard. The inn sank from sight, the road stretchedbefore them.
This day, riding into a village, they found there, the centre untiltheir arrival of excited interest, no less a matter than an officer ofthe law with three or four subordinates, come from the town to whichthey were bound—despatched thence by the authorities with orders tomeet upon the way the party known to be bringing from London that witchand sorcerer, join themselves to it, and so give touch of that town andcounty’s importance, assuming charge, as it were, even leagues away,of their own sinful ones.... Aderhold and Joan recognized the headfigure—across the years they saw him again at the Hawthorn trials—atall, lean, saturnine minor piece of the law’s machinery who had herdedthe prisoners in and out of that hall of judgement. He was so tall andlean and lantern-jawed and grim that he might have been a prize man forthe rôle of Death in a mystery play. For his part he came and lookedat them, threw back his head and laughed. “Ha, ha!” he said. “We’vegot you back! The wicked do not prosper!” With that he returned to thesheriff with whom he would ride.... This village was of the placeswhere stones and other matters were flung, together with whateverepithet came to the lips. Joan and Aderhold opposed a quietness. Bothwere bleeding when at last the law persuaded or threatened down theraised hands and bore them away for its own blows. Out even upon theopen road came, borne by the wind, “Witch—Witch—Witch! Vile Witch!”
There was a man with the added party who proved to be of kin to theHawthorn end of the county. He knew Hawthorn and Hawthorn Forest.Riding near to the two prisoners and discoursing with his fellows, thetwo heard mention of many a familiar name. He had a body of great bulkand a round, good-humoured face, and a liking for his own speech whichhe delivered—so as not to disturb his superiors—in a monotone of lowpitch. The two heard him talk of the Hawthorn crops and fields andweather, of the times good and bad, of the stock, the sheep and cattle,of the streams and woods, of the people.... This day was a high, coolautumn day with a tang in the air. The sun shone, but there was a windand whirling leaves. Joan and Aderhold knew that now there were notmany miles.... At dusk they halted within a hamlet where the folk weretoo few to do more than stare and talk. There was no gaol. The two werethrust into a damp and dark place where firewood was piled. Bread andwater were given them, but no straw for sleeping upon. When the heavydoor was shut and barred, and those without and the hamlet’s self sunkinto sleep or silence, all was as black, as cold and still, as thegrave is supposed to be.
The two knew that next day they would reach the town and the prisonfrom which, six years and more ago, they had fled away. There theywould be separated.... Probably they would die together—would bebrought forth together to die—might then each reach the other’s hand,might clasp it until nearly the last. But not again in this lifewould they be together like this, alone together, free, shut from theworld.... To-night, at first, all things flowed away save the fact thatthey loved, save human passion and sorrow and clinging. They lay in thespace left by the heaped firewood, in the intense dark, and they heldeach other in their arms, close, close! as if to defy all parting, andthere were broken words and sighs and tears. The last night—the lastnight—
The higher mood returned, though slowly, slowly. With the bending ofthe night toward dawn, it was here. They lay with clasped hands, andwhen they spoke they spoke of love. All things else flowed away, ordid not flow away, for it was now as though love tinted all, made thevast whole warm and vital.... They spoke of their child, and of theirisland life and home; they spoke of the old chief. They spoke of peoplethey had known and loved—of old Roger Heron, of Master Hardwick—ofmany, of all people. The draff and dross, the crooked and bent, allcame into the glow, the solvent. Love—love—love!... Love took thisform and took that form, and now it flew with these wings, and now withother wings—and it was love of the body and the earth and all nature,and it was love of wisdom—love of knowledge—love of the search—loveof love—love of truth! It was love that was not afraid—that rose onsplendid wings—that outwatched the night and saw the morning coming....
Outside began, faintly, a stirring. A cock crew and was answered. Adog barked—the cock-crow came again. A grey light stole in at thekeyhole and under the door of the windowless place they were in. Itstrengthened until they could make out each other’s face and form. Thedog barked again, men’s voices were hea
rd.
Joan and Aderhold rose to their knees, to their feet, steadying eachother, holding by the firewood. The place, through the night, hadhad the chill of the sepulchre. They knew it to be their last momenttogether; hereafter, to the end, there would be others by. They stoodlocked in each other’s arms, their lips meeting.... Steps were heardwithout and the fall of the chain from across the door. They releasedeach other, they stood apart. The door swung open, light rushed in.“Come forth, you wicked ones! Time to ride on—and to-night we’ll lodgeyou in the nest you flew from!”
There could not have been a fairer autumn day. And now as they rode thecountry grew more and more familiar.... While the day was yet young,all were halted for a few minutes before a tavern set among trees,its sign a great rose painted on a black ground. While ale in jacksand tankards was brought forth for the guardians of the law, the twoprisoners had brief speech together.
“The Rose Tavern,” said Aderhold. “It was in this place that I firstmet Master Hardwick. It was here that came the turn toward Hawthorn.”
“We have not far to go now.”
“No, not far.”
In the doorway stood the tall hostess that Aderhold remembered. Shestood with arms akimbo, regarding the prisoners with a mien so hostileas to approach the ferocious. “Aaah!” she said. “I’d like to help bringstraw and wood!” She spat toward the two. “Haven’t _I_ had thingsbewitched?—a gold earring taken from under my eyes, and our ricksburned, and ill luck for a year running—and a bat this summer cameflapping through the house every eve, and none could beat it down!” Shewas speaking to the constable’s man who knew Hawthorn. “Wherever thatvile witch has been this weary time, be sure she’s sent her word outover all these parts to do us harm—”
“And that’s very possible,” said the round-faced man.
“Aren’t you going to take them by Hawthorn?”
“Yes,” answered the other. “Turn off this side of town—go round byHawthorn Wood—then through Hawthorn, and so back to town and theprison. It’s miles out, but Hawthorn wants it done. There’s a murmur ofmore witches—and it’s good warning to see how such folk fare!”
Joan and Aderhold, startled, exchanged glances. They had not thought ofthat—of coming to their prison from the Hawthorn end. They would belonger together. Joan’s lips parted. “And Hawthorn Forest—Ah, maybe weshall see Heron’s cottage—”
The sun and shadow on the road, the waving trees, the white fleets ofclouds in a blue, blue sky.... They came to the crossroads with thesuicide’s grave—they came to the rise of earth where stood the gibbetwith its swinging chains—they came to a view of the castle wood andthe castle and the town beyond. One of the men asked a question of theround-faced man. “Who lives up there?”
“The earl,” said the round-faced man. “But he’s away now. It used to bethat if he wasn’t there his cousin, Sir Richard, was. But Sir Richardwent to France, and they say he married there and has a son.—I used toknow Gervaise his man. But Gervaise has gone too.”
The sun made of the castle woods golden woods. Joan could see the BlackTower—see where deep among the trees would be the huntsman’s house. Agreat bird rose above the gold-green and sailed away.... Here, a milefrom the first outlying house, was the narrow and little-used roadthat, curving aside from the town, led through some miles of country,tilled and untilled, to Hawthorn Forest; then, with a half turn, cameat its leisure to Hawthorn, and so touched again the highway. They tookthis road.
Until they came to a stream, in size between a brook and a river,the country was to the two as the other familiar country. But thiswas the stream that murmured past the Oak Grange. They were riding byits shore, they were going toward the Grange—now indeed it grew tobe known land. Aderhold knew every winding.... The two rode as in adream. Before them, in the distance, in a golden haze, rose a forest.“Hawthorn Wood”—and Joan’s voice made the words dreamy music. The sunwas warm now, the sky was blue, the leaves were falling, but withoutsadness, ready to go, to return once more to the elements, build again.The stream bent and the road with it. There came a long reach ofmurmuring water, sliding by a pebbly strand. Across it now were fieldsthat once had gone with the Oak Grange.... A little farther, and theysaw the old house, and before it the fairy oak.
Just at the footbridge across the stream sounded an order to halt. Thelean, grim man whom the town had sent spoke in a harsh and rattlingvoice. “This is where he made gold and practised sorcery.—ThouGod-denier! behold thy old lair, how accursed it looks!”
To the two it did not seem accursed. It stood an old, deserted, ruinoushouse, but the ivy was green upon it, and the sunshine bathed it, andthe swallows circled above the roof. The oak tree in front lived, andfrom its acorns were growing other oaks.... Joan and Aderhold lookedlong and earnestly. The air was thronged with memories and thereseemed a weaving music. They were not unhappy—the artifex within themwas not unhappy. But those that were with them thought that they mustbe so.
The horses were in motion again. And now the road turned and becameHawthorn Forest road that ran to Hawthorn. The Oak Grange passedfrom sight, the murmur of the stream left the ears. They were withinHawthorn Forest. The great trees rose around; there fell gold shaftsof light; there came the odour, damp and rich, of the forest moulddeepening, deepening since old time. Down a purple vista they saw deermoving—a faint wind was blowing—there was a drifting, drifting downof leaves.... To Joan and Aderhold this forest breathed music. Theywere glad to be here once again. They knew the single trees and thegroups of trees, they knew each picture within a picture: loved thedetail and loved the whole. It was sweet, before death, to have been inHawthorn Wood again.
Heron’s cottage. When they were forth from the forest they would seethat plainly, riding by. Perhaps they would draw rein there too. Thered crept into Joan’s cheek, her grey eyes grew bright and wistful....The forest stopped; the grassy road brought them out into fullsunshine, a high blue sky arching the open, autumn country. Heron’scottage.... There was yet the green path from the road, yet the fruittrees, bronze now and trembling in the wind—but there was no thatchedcottage. “Vile witch!” said the tall man, “Hawthorn burned your house.”
Hawthorn—there was no great distance now to Hawthorn. There had neverbeen much passing on this road, little human life going up and down.This day there seemed none; moreover, a cot or two by the waysideshowed no folk about the doors, appeared shut and left to care forthemselves. At dawn a man had been sent forward on a fresh horse—theloneliness of the road now connected itself with that. “Everybody’sgone to Hawthorn,” said the round-faced man.
Hawthorn Church, stone amid stone-like yew trees, Hawthorn roofs showedover the rim of the fields. Out of a coppice rose a lark and soaringhigh sang up there in the blue. The Hawthorn Forest road joined thehighroad; guard and prisoners coming upon this turned now to Hawthornvillage. Carthew House—they passed Carthew House—they passed theoutlying cottages, among them that of Alison Inch—they came intoHawthorn and to Hawthorn Church and Master Clement’s house. Here werethe people....
A bench had been placed by the churchyard gate, and upon this stoodMaster Clement, raised as by a pulpit over Hawthorn. Near him stoodSquire Carthew and his brother, and the latter stood grim and grey asgranite. It was his intention to rise in church the coming Sunday andbefore all Hawthorn acknowledge that six-years-past sin. He owed thatto God. The confession might or might not put in jeopardy his futurein England, but, however that might be, he would make it—make itpublicly! So he might have peace and could go on with the great work,assured that God had forgiven.... For to-day he had made himself comehither, taking it as part of his duty. Master Clement had urged that itwas his duty. With a stern face he gazed upon the two, but they, afterone glance, looked at him no more.
All around, packed in the churchyard and the street, were the people ofHawthorn and its neighbourhood. How many familiar faces they saw—buthow few out of which superstition had not razed kindliness! Heretoforeon this journey, where the
y had been set in the eye of a gatheredcrowd, the two had met with physical blows no less than with hardwords. But the Hawthorn throng was held in hand. No stone or clod orrefuse was thrown. The hard words arose, broke over them heavily, asordid and bitter wave. But this, too, the minister checked. He raisedhis arms and flung them wide, he shook his lean and nervous hands.Thrust to the front of the throng stood the tinker with whom Joan hadonce walked on the road from the town. “Hist, hist!” said the tinker.“Now will they hear their last sermon!”
“‘_And the sea gave up the dead which were in it; and death andhell delivered up the dead which were in them, and they were judgedaccording to their works.... And whosoever was not found written inthe book of life was cast into the lake of fire!_’
“‘_And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fireand brimstone where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall betormented day and night forever and ever._’”
Hawthorn drew in its breath and shivered with that sermon. They saidthat it was the greatest that Master Clement had ever preached, andhe had preached a-many great ones! Some of the simpler folk almostlooked for fire to come down from heaven and consume the wicked leechand that vilest witch where they stood. It would have been a wonderfulsight and lesson! But doubtless God wanted the forms of the law carriedout—though they could not but still think how wonderful would havebeen a visible sign....
Joan and Aderhold were an hour in Hawthorn.... It passed; all hourspassed, though some, and this among them, went on wounded feet.
It passed. They were in motion again. The Hawthorn folk that criedbitter words behind them, the narrow street, the small, familiar houseswith dooryards where the flowers were fading, the ale-house, the green,the sexton’s house, other houses, the elms and willows that marked thevillage end—all were overpassed, left behind. Here at last was theopen road, and they had six miles to ride together.... Hawthorn fadedfrom the mind.
It was afternoon. The gold light lay softly over the country thathad always seemed to them a very fair country—that seemed so still.The wind had fallen. They rode side by side. Those that guarded themwere tired with the long day and its various excitements. These rodein silence or talked among themselves in voices somewhat subdued,and for a time let the prisoners go unmarked. When they came withinsight of the town it would be different. Then all would straighten intheir saddles and closely surround the two, assuming the proper air ofvigilance. But now they allowed them to ride side by side and gave noheed to what words they might speak to each other.
They were simple words that Joan and Aderhold spoke—old, old words oflove and tenderness. They spoke of courage. And they spoke of Truth,the Origin and Goal. And they loved each other, and the light of allsuns, and they found song and sweetness, promise and fulfilment even inthis autumnal day....
The miles fell away like the leaves from the trees. The ground rose;they had a great view bathed in the amber light. There flowed agleaming crescent. “The river!” said Joan.
The town that they had seen from the south, now they saw from thenorth. They saw the river and the arched bridge, the climbing streetsand many roofs; they saw the great church and near it the dark prison,and above the town the castle and the castle wood. The sun was sinking,the light was reddening; above, the sky sprang pure, without a stain,for the fleets of clouds had sailed away.
The tall, lean man spoke. “Witch and blasphemer! do you see yon raggedfield sloping down? That is where we will hang you.”
Joan and Aderhold, going toward the river, looked upon the ragged fieldwith steadfastness, but gave but few moments to that sight. Beforethem was the arched bridge, and they saw, even on this side of it,people gathering. Presently the sheriff’s men would come between them,surrounding each, making one go before the other. Now they had theselast few moments side by side. Their hands might touch, their eyesbe eloquent. Farewell—and farewell—and oh, fare you well, love—mylove!...
The road descended to the river and the bridge. There arose the soundthey knew from the crowd they knew. The sheriff’s men pushed betweenthem; they must go one before the other. So each might be better seenas well as better guarded. They crossed the river; they mounted thesteep street; they came to the town square, past the great church’ssculptured portal.... The two had been ordered to dismount, were nowafoot.... Here was the pillory—here was the black prison’s frowningfront, the prison steps, the open door.... The setting sun floodedthe place with red light. A flint, flung by some strong arm, hadcut Aderhold’s forehead. With his hand he wiped the blood away andlooked to see Joan. She was upon the prison steps, lifted so thatthe roaring crowd might see her. That great light from the sun beatstrongly upon face and form. The form was drawn to its height, the facewas high, resolved, and beautiful. But the crowd shouted, “The witch!The witch! Look at the light as of fire! The fire has her already!Witch—Witch—Witch!”
Joan mounted the last step, the black prison gaped for her, sheentered. Aderhold, mounting, met also that great shaft of light. Thevoice of the crowd swelled, grew phrensied, but he heeded it not, andwith a face lit from within followed Joan into the prison.
THE END
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