A JOURNEY
THEY lay for a month in prison in London. Then, all procedures having
been met, the law would return them to the county where they had
offended and the gaol from which they had broken and the gallows field
which 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 they
were often bad—they dismounted and went afoot. So many were with
them and so no danger at all was there of escape, that they were left
unshackled, were even let to draw a little to themselves. At first the
guard was rough of tongue, ready with frequent, unneeded commands,
ready with coarse gibes. But the two answered quietly, or were silent
without sullenness, and there was something in them that gave check....
At last the men conveyed them without insult, without much further
speech 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 with
savage jeers and execrations. Sometimes mud was thrown, sometimes
flints. But it was not the guard’s cue to tell names and offence—and
England was not as populous then as now—and there were long miles
of lonely peace. To Joan and Aderhold they seemed at times miles of
a beautiful, a sunny peace. They knew how to talk together with few
words, with a glance of the eye. And there were many times when, some
space allowed them and the guards talking among themselves, the road
became as it were their own. Then they spoke freely, though with low
voices.
It was late summer, with autumn well in view upon the slope of the
year. The landscape was growing russet, and none the less fair for
that. And it was England—England after the blue plains of the sea and
the low, coral isles. And it was country and pure air after the fetid
London prison. And it was the land where they were born—it was home,
seen after years away. These green fields and spreading trees—this
English sky—these birds and flowers and crystal streams—these were
no foes of theirs. These had never cast them out. Here as elsewhere,
the great round earth had its own orthodoxy, but took scant heed of
man’s.... They saw England after long absence; and for all that they
were to be slain here, they could find it beautiful, and for all that
they knew where ended this road, they played with the happenings upon
it.
Twenty miles out from London the sheriff’s horse cast a shoe, and at
the next smithy all must halt until Grey Dick was shod. The smithy
stood in the pleasant shadow of an oak so great that it must have
been growing when the Conqueror came over. The hot smithy fire glowed
within, iron struck rhythmically against iron. Beyond the tree was
a well, and all were thirsty. They had not drawn bridle for several
hours. The men dismounted—the two prisoners were given leave to do
likewise, even to rest upon the earth beneath the oak.
The four children of the smith sat upon a log and watched with an
intensity of interest horses and men and all their movements, and the
man and woman half sitting, half lying beneath the oak. The smithy dog
came up to these two, snuffed around them, and then lay down at their
feet. _Clink! Clink!_ and the trees began to wave in an afternoon
breeze, and the voices of the men about the well and the smithy door
sounded cheerful and hardy. The two had no misliking for the bright
world. They sat watching the children.... The youngest child, a
yellow-haired mite of three, would make an excursion of its own from
the log, past the oak, to the door. In the course of the journey it
came upon a protruding root, stumbled over it and fell. Joan sprang
forward and lifted it to its feet. “There, there! You’re not hurt—Look
at the pretty flower you fell against!” The child decided not to cry,
laughed instead. Joan’s arm curved about the sturdy small form and
pressed it to her. “Ah, what a good baby!”—The child was willing to
stay and play, but with suddenness found herself released, given a
gentle push back toward the three upon the log. Joan took her seat
again upon the turf. “It wasn’t wise to touch her. It’s strange that it
should be so, but if any saw they might bring it against her when she
is grown.”
She spoke without any pain for herself in her voice, but with yearning
and tenderness for the child. “Now she’s there and happy! She’s got a
stick to play with.”
“Joan, Joan!” said Aderhold. “There will come a day—”
The horse was shod, the well-water drunk, guard and prisoners took
again the road. The smith and his man had, at the last, their curiosity
satisfied. “Witches and wizards!—Nay, if I had known that—”
The road presented its stream, here full, here very thin, of autumn
travel. Little pictures and the whole picture had a clear, a vivid
interest. Market people went by, drovers with cattle, sturdy beggars,
children, country girls and swains, carters and their carts, mounted
travel of merchants or justices or churchmen or country gentlemen.
The mounted travel would always, authoritatively, have its curiosity
gratified. “A ward with prisoners!—Who are your prisoners,
sheriff?” The second morning it was a party of young gallants who
would know this. They wore feathered hats, fine riding-clothes,
boots of soft leather, their hair somewhat long and curled. They
were for King and Church—would all live, perhaps, to fight on that
side. “Prisoners! What are your prisoners, sirrah!” Then, when they
knew,—“Witch! Witch! A young witch, too! Let’s see her—Zounds!
Who’s the man?... The Hawthorn two who fled! _Gilbert Aderhold—Joan
Heron!_” Certain of these gallants had been in London and knew of
the recapture. It had been common talk. The king had learned of it.
“Joan Heron!—Joan Heron! Let’s see—let’s see! Grey eyes—gold
hair—no, hair like bronze, pale bronze.... Would you dare to kiss a
witch?”—“No!”—“Yes!”—“No!”—“Yes, I would!”—“To make the Devil
jealous—that were a parlous thing!”—“Parlous or not, if she hath grey
eyes and red lips—”—“Kiss her—clip her in thy arms and to-night she
will come as _succuba_ and kiss and clip thee! Then hark to thy roar,
‘Avaunt, thou hag! Will none save me from the foul fiend?’”—“Joan
Heron! Rememberest the ballad, THE DEVIL AND JOAN HERON?”—“But thou’rt
not called ‘Daredevil’ for naught!”—“Do you dare me?”—“Yes, yes! We
dare you!”—“Kiss her hard, clip her fast—No, no. Master Sheriff! Fair
play—make a ring!... Now! Now!”... “_Well, thou hast courage!_”...
“_She did not struggle,—as do honest women or those who would be
thought honest!_” “To-night, to-night, when thou hast put out the
light, look to find her!”—“Ha, ha! ha, ha! JOAN HERON—”
They won away from those of the feathered hats. Space widened between
the two cavalcades, the voices of the gallants died from the ear. The
road lay bright and sunny, the morning air blew fresh and sweet. The
great earth swept calm to the horizon, the sky sprang, a pure and
cloudless arch. For a long way the road ran lonely of travellers other
than the sheriff, his men, and the prisoners. Joan and Aderhold, riding
together, talked in low tones. After a time they were passing through
a forest. They loved the brown earth and the bracken, the boughs
overhead, the purple distances.
“I remember this wood,” said Aderhold. “I lay and rested under
these 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 the
day before, and brighter to-day than yesterday.... Look at the bird
flying up!”
The third night the troop did not arrive, in time for rest, at any
town or village. A heavy rain had fallen and delayed progress. They
came at dark to three or four mean houses, clustered around one of
better proportions, an inn by the sign just made out through the dusk
and the autumn mists. There was not much to eat, but it might be made
to do—straw could be shaken down—there was a great fireplace where
blazing warmth might be had.... To Joan and Aderhold, accustomed to
the 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 disposed
themselves, there was yet space where the ruddy glow might reach them,
dry their clothing wet with the rain, warm their bodies. Where there
was not overmuch for any, their portion of supper was small, indeed,
but it sufficed. When all would sleep, lying about the fire upon the
straw which the inn’s servitors brought in, the two were thrust to a
corner at the far end of the place, farthest from the door. A watch was
set—a stanch man relieved each two hours by another. The sheriff meant
no slipping of the wizard and witch out of his fingers. But sleeping
time was not yet come. The two sat to one side, watched, but no more
closely than was thought necessary.
Beside the sheriff and his men there were the host and hostess, three
or four uncouth serving-men and maids, and one other traveller, belated
like the rest. This was a gentle-faced old man, the parson, it was
learned, of a parish a dozen miles away.... The night before, in a town
of fair size, the names of his prisoners becoming known, the sheriff
had had trouble to rescue them from the mob that gathered. This day,
therefore, he would keep secret the full heinousness of the pair—along
the way and here it was said only that they were a man and woman
accused of witchcraft and apostasy, being transferred from one gaol to
another.
Under this description the inn folk looked aside at them with great
curiosity and fear. At supper time none could be found willing to
carry to them from the kitchen their bit of coarse bread and pitcher
of water. The host was busied elsewhere; the hostess put down her foot
that she would not; the men and maids laughed vacantly and stared, but
would not budge in that direction. The old man, the parson, who chanced
to be by, uttered a word of gentle chiding, then, as all still hung
back, himself picked up the bread and water and carried them to the
two. They thanked him. He stood looking at them with a gentle, pained
face. Called to supper at the long table where the sheriff and his men
were noisily taking places, he went away. But presently, his own frugal
meal quickly made, he came back. Theirs, too, was made. They were
seated on the stone flooring, shoulder against the wall, hand touching
hand. They had no look of wicked folk.
The old man found a stool, brought it and sat down beside them. “You
look worn and tired. The roads have been bad to-day.”
He spoke to Joan. “Bad here and there,” she said. “We are a little
tired.”
The old man sat looking from one to the other. Then he spoke with
simplicity. “Is it true that you are apostates from religion?”
“What,” said Aderhold, “is religion?—Is it love of good? Then, with
our hand in death’s, I dare aver that we are not apostates!” He smiled
at the old man. “Since we entered this room you have shown us a piece
of religion.”
“I would show you truly,” said the old man earnestly. “I would show you
Jesus.”
Aderhold answered gently. “You do so, sir. Believe that all of us know
Jesus when we meet him.”
The old man looked from one to the other. “You do not seem to me wicked
people. I know not how it is, but you seem—” The sheriff and his men
rose noisily from table. There immediately ensued a bustle in the
place—boards and trestles being taken away—bundles of straw brought
in—men going forth to look after the horses—men coming in with the
breath of the wet night. One came and called the old parson, drew him
away toward the small inner room where he was to rest. Going, he said
but 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 marvel
how 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. The
old parson, approaching, too, in the course of nature, his death hour,
slept on like a child in the inner room. But Joan and Aderhold went
forward with the guard. The inn sank from sight, the road stretched
before them.
This day, riding into a village, they found there, the centre until
their arrival of excited interest, no less a matter than an officer of
the law with three or four subordinates, come from the town to which
they were bound—despatched thence by the authorities with orders to
meet upon the way the party known to be bringing from London that witch
and sorcerer, join themselves to it, and so give touch of that town and
county’s importance, assuming charge, as it were, even leagues away,
of their own sinful ones.... Aderhold and Joan recognized the head
figure—across the years they saw him again at the Hawthorn trials—a
tall, lean, saturnine minor piece of the law’s machinery who had herded
the prisoners in and out of that hall of judgement. He was so tall and
lean and lantern-jawed and grim that he might have been a prize man for
the rôle of Death in a mystery play. For his part he came and looked
at them, threw back his head and laughed. “Ha, ha!” he said. “We’ve
got you back! The wicked do not prosper!” With that he returned to the
sheriff with whom he would ride.... This village was of the places
where stones and other matters were flung, together with whatever
epithet came to the lips. Joan and Aderhold opposed a quietness. Both
were bleeding when at last the law persuaded or threatened down the
raised hands and bore them away for its own blows. Out even upon the
open 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 the
Hawthorn end of the county. He knew Hawthorn and Hawthorn Forest.
Riding near to the two prisoners and discoursing with his fellows, the
two heard mention of many a familiar name. He had a body of great bulk
and a round, good-humoured face, and a liking for his own speech which
he delivered—so as not to disturb his superiors—in a monotone of low
pitch. The two heard him talk of the Hawthorn crops and fields and
weather, 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, cool
autumn day with a tang in the air. The sun shone, but there was a wind
and whirling leaves. Joan and Aderhold knew that now there were not
many miles.... At dusk they halted within a hamlet where the folk were
too few to do more than stare and talk. There was no gaol. The two were
thrust into a damp and dark place where firewood was piled. Bread and
water were given them, but no straw for sleeping upon. When the heavy
door was shut and barred, and those without and the hamlet’s self sunk
into sleep or silence, all was as black, as cold and still, as the
grave is supposed to be.
The two knew that next day they would reach the town and the prison
from which, six years and more ago, they had fled away. There they
would be separated.... Probably they would die together—would be
brought forth together to die—might then each reach the other’s hand,
might clasp it until nearly the last. But not again in this life
would they be together like this, alone together, free, shut from the
world.... To-night, at first, all things flowed away save the fact that
they loved, save human passion and sorrow and clinging. They lay in the
space left by the heaped firewood, in the intense dark, and they held
each other in their arms, close, close! as if to defy all parting, and
there were broken words and sighs and tears. The last night—the last
night—
The higher mood returned, though slowly, slowly. With the bending of
the night toward dawn, it was here. They lay with clasped hands, and
when they spoke they spoke of love. All things else flowed away, or
did not flow away, for it was now as though love tinted all, made the
vast whole warm and vital.... They spoke of their child, and of their
island life and home; they spoke of the old chief. They spoke of people
they had known and loved—of old Roger Heron, of Master Hardwick—of
many, of all people. The draff and dross, the crooked and bent, all
came into the glow, the solvent. Love—love—love!... Love took this
form and took that form, and now it flew with these wings, and now with
other 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—love
of love—love of truth! It was love that was not afraid—that rose on
splendid wings—that outwatched the night and saw the morning coming....
Outside began, faintly, a stirring. A cock crew and was answered. A
dog barked—the cock-crow came again. A grey light stole in at the
keyhole and under the door of the windowless place they were in. It
strengthened until they could make out each other’s face and form. The
dog barked again, men’s voices were heard.
Joan and Aderhold rose to their knees, to their feet, steadying each
other, holding by the firewood. The place, through the night, had
had the chill of the sepulchre. They knew it to be their last moment
together; hereafter, to the end, there would be others by. They stood
locked in each other’s arms, their lips meeting.... Steps were heard
without and the fall of the chain from across the door. They released
each 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 lodge
you in the nest you flew from!”
There could not have been a fairer autumn day. And now as they rode the
country 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 jacks
and tankards was brought forth for the guardians of the law, the two
prisoners had brief speech together.
“The Rose Tavern,” said Aderhold. “It was in this place that I first
met 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. She
stood with arms akimbo, regarding the prisoners with a mien so hostile
as to approach the ferocious. “Aaah!” she said. “I’d like to help bring
straw and wood!” She spat toward the two. “Haven’t _I_ had things
bewitched?—a gold earring taken from under my eyes, and our ricks
burned, and ill luck for a year running—and a bat this summer came
flapping through the house every eve, and none could beat it down!” She
was speaking to the constable’s man who knew Hawthorn. “Wherever that
vile witch has been this weary time, be sure she’s sent her word out
over 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 by
Hawthorn Wood—then through Hawthorn, and so back to town and the
prison. It’s miles out, but Hawthorn wants it done. There’s a murmur of
more witches—and it’s good warning to see how such folk fare!”
Joan and Aderhold, startled, exchanged glances. They had not thought of
that—of coming to their prison from the Hawthorn end. They would be
longer together. Joan’s lips parted. “And Hawthorn Forest—Ah, maybe we
shall see Heron’s cottage—”
The sun and shadow on the road, the waving trees, the white fleets of
clouds in a blue, blue sky.... They came to the crossroads with the
suicide’s grave—they came to the rise of earth where stood the gibbet
with its swinging chains—they came to a view of the castle wood and
the castle and the town beyond. One of the men asked a question of the
round-faced man. “Who lives up there?”
“The earl,” said the round-faced man. “But he’s away now. It used to be
that if he wasn’t there his cousin, Sir Richard, was. But Sir Richard
went to France, and they say he married there and has a son.—I used to
know Gervaise his man. But Gervaise has gone too.”
The sun made of the castle woods golden woods. Joan could see the Black
Tower—see where deep among the trees would be the huntsman’s house. A
great bird rose above the gold-green and sailed away.... Here, a mile
from the first outlying house, was the narrow and little-used road
that, curving aside from the town, led through some miles of country,
tilled and untilled, to Hawthorn Forest; then, with a half turn, came
at its leisure to Hawthorn, and so touched again the highway. They took
this 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 this
was the stream that murmured past the Oak Grange. They were riding by
its shore, they were going toward the Grange—now indeed it grew to
be known land. Aderhold knew every winding.... The two rode as in a
dream. Before them, in the distance, in a golden haze, rose a forest.
“Hawthorn Wood”—and Joan’s voice made the words dreamy music. The sun
was warm now, the sky was blue, the leaves were falling, but without
sadness, 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 of
murmuring water, sliding by a pebbly strand. Across it now were fields
that once had gone with the Oak Grange.... A little farther, and they
saw the old house, and before it the fairy oak.
Just at the footbridge across the stream sounded an order to halt. The
lean, grim man whom the town had sent spoke in a harsh and rattling
voice. “This is where he made gold and practised sorcery.—Thou
God-denier! behold thy old lair, how accursed it looks!”
To the two it did not seem accursed. It stood an old, deserted, ruinous
house, but the ivy was green upon it, and the sunshine bathed it, and
the swallows circled above the roof. The oak tree in front lived, and
from its acorns were growing other oaks.... Joan and Aderhold looked
long and earnestly. The air was thronged with memories and there
seemed a weaving music. They were not unhappy—the artifex within them
was not unhappy. But those that were with them thought that they must
be so.
The horses were in motion again. And now the road turned and became
Hawthorn Forest road that ran to Hawthorn. The Oak Grange passed
from sight, the murmur of the stream left the ears. They were within
Hawthorn Forest. The great trees rose around; there fell gold shafts
of light; there came the odour, damp and rich, of the forest mould
deepening, deepening since old time. Down a purple vista they saw deer
moving—a faint wind was blowing—there was a drifting, drifting down
of leaves.... To Joan and Aderhold this forest breathed music. They
were glad to be here once again. They knew the single trees and the
groups of trees, they knew each picture within a picture: loved the
detail and loved the whole. It was sweet, before death, to have been in
Hawthorn Wood again.
Heron’s cottage. When they were forth from the forest they would see
that plainly, riding by. Perhaps they would draw rein there too. The
red crept into Joan’s cheek, her grey eyes grew bright and wistful....
The forest stopped; the grassy road brought them out into full
sunshine, a high blue sky arching the open, autumn country. Heron’s
cottage.... There was yet the green path from the road, yet the fruit
trees, bronze now and trembling in the wind—but there was no thatched
cottage. “Vile witch!” said the tall man, “Hawthorn burned your house.”
Hawthorn—there was no great distance now to Hawthorn. There had never
been much passing on this road, little human life going up and down.
This day there seemed none; moreover, a cot or two by the wayside
showed no folk about the doors, appeared shut and left to care for
themselves. At dawn a man had been sent forward on a fresh horse—the
loneliness of the road now connected itself with that. “Everybody’s
gone to Hawthorn,” said the round-faced man.
Hawthorn Church, stone amid stone-like yew trees, Hawthorn roofs showed
over the rim of the fields. Out of a coppice rose a lark and soaring
high sang up there in the blue. The Hawthorn Forest road joined the
highroad; guard and prisoners coming upon this turned now to Hawthorn
village. Carthew House—they passed Carthew House—they passed the
outlying cottages, among them that of Alison Inch—they came into
Hawthorn and to Hawthorn Church and Master Clement’s house. Here were
the people....
A bench had been placed by the churchyard gate, and upon this stood
Master Clement, raised as by a pulpit over Hawthorn. Near him stood
Squire Carthew and his brother, and the latter stood grim and grey as
granite. It was his intention to rise in church the coming Sunday and
before all Hawthorn acknowledge that six-years-past sin. He owed that
to God. The confession might or might not put in jeopardy his future
in England, but, however that might be, he would make it—make it
publicly! 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 come
hither, taking it as part of his duty. Master Clement had urged that it
was his duty. With a stern face he gazed upon the two, but they, after
one glance, looked at him no more.
All around, packed in the churchyard and the street, were the people of
Hawthorn and its neighbourhood. How many familiar faces they saw—but
how few out of which superstition had not razed kindliness! Heretofore
on this journey, where they had been set in the eye of a gathered
crowd, the two had met with physical blows no less than with hard
words. But the Hawthorn throng was held in hand. No stone or clod or
refuse was thrown. The hard words arose, broke over them heavily, a
sordid and bitter wave. But this, too, the minister checked. He raised
his 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 had
once 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 and
hell delivered up the dead which were in them, and they were judged
according to their works.... And whosoever was not found written in
the book of life was cast into the lake of fire!_’
“‘_And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire
and brimstone where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be
tormented day and night forever and ever._’”
Hawthorn drew in its breath and shivered with that sermon. They said
that it was the greatest that Master Clement had ever preached, and
he had preached a-many great ones! Some of the simpler folk almost
looked for fire to come down from heaven and consume the wicked leech
and that vilest witch where they stood. It would have been a wonderful
sight and lesson! But doubtless God wanted the forms of the law carried
out—though they could not but still think how wonderful would have
been a visible sign....
Joan and Aderhold were an hour in Hawthorn.... It passed; all hours
passed, though some, and this among them, went on wounded feet.
It passed. They were in motion again. The Hawthorn folk that cried
bitter words behind them, the narrow street, the small, familiar houses
with dooryards where the flowers were fading, the ale-house, the green,
the sexton’s house, other houses, the elms and willows that marked the
village end—all were overpassed, left behind. Here at last was the
open road, and they had six miles to ride together.... Hawthorn faded
from the mind.
It was afternoon. The gold light lay softly over the country that
had always seemed to them a very fair country—that seemed so still.
The wind had fallen. They rode side by side. Those that guarded them
were tired with the long day and its various excitements. These rode
in silence or talked among themselves in voices somewhat subdued,
and for a time let the prisoners go unmarked. When they came within
sight of the town it would be different. Then all would straighten in
their saddles and closely surround the two, assuming the proper air of
vigilance. But now they allowed them to ride side by side and gave no
heed to what words they might speak to each other.
They were simple words that Joan and Aderhold spoke—old, old words of
love and tenderness. They spoke of courage. And they spoke of Truth,
the Origin and Goal. And they loved each other, and the light of all
suns, and they found song and sweetness, promise and fulfilment even in
this 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 a
gleaming crescent. “The river!” said Joan.
The town that they had seen from the south, now they saw from the
north. They saw the river and the arched bridge, the climbing streets
and 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 ragged
field sloping down? That is where we will hang you.”
Joan and Aderhold, going toward the river, looked upon the ragged field
with steadfastness, but gave but few moments to that sight. Before
them 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 these
last few moments side by side. Their hands might touch, their eyes
be eloquent. Farewell—and farewell—and oh, fare you well, love—my
love!...
The road descended to the river and the bridge. There arose the sound
they knew from the crowd they knew. The sheriff’s men pushed between
them; they must go one before the other. So each might be better seen
as well as better guarded. They crossed the river; they mounted the
steep street; they came to the town square, past the great church’s
sculptured portal.... The two had been ordered to dismount, were now
afoot.... Here was the pillory—here was the black prison’s frowning
front, the prison steps, the open door.... The setting sun flooded
the place with red light. A flint, flung by some strong arm, had
cut Aderhold’s forehead. With his hand he wiped the blood away and
looked to see Joan. She was upon the prison steps, lifted so that
the roaring crowd might see her. That great light from the sun beat
strongly upon face and form. The form was drawn to its height, the face
was 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, she
entered. Aderhold, mounting, met also that great shaft of light. The
voice of the crowd swelled, grew phrensied, but he heeded it not, and
with a face lit from within followed Joan into the prison.
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE · MASSACHUSETTS
U·S·A