our 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 rig