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every word the poor woman uttered but brought further vituperation upon her.

      She shouted, "Help!"

      "Hark, my masters," sneered Matthew loftily, "she calls to Satan for help."

      "What will you do with me?" she pleaded. "I've done you no wrong."

      "Thou hast brought the devil in our midst."

      "No! no!"

      "I saw thee riding on a broomstick – going to thy Sabbath revels."

      "'Tis false!"

      "Tie her to the pole – quick!"

      The so-called witch, the friend of Satan and of all the powers of darkness, fell upon her knees in an agony of the wildest despair. Realizing her position, the terrible doom which was awaiting her, her whole figure seemed to writhe with the agony of her horror. She dragged herself to Matthew's knees – he seemed to be leading the others – she wrenched her arms free from those who held her and threw them round him. She forced her voice to gentleness and pleading, tried to appeal to what was a stone wall of unconquerable prejudice.

      "Sirs, kind sirs," she entreated, "you would not harm a poor girl who had done you no wrong?.. you won't harm me – you won't… Oh, God!" she shrieked in her frenzy, "you wouldn't – you wouldn't – Holy Virgin, protect me – "

      A rough hand was placed over her mouth and her last yells were smothered as she was ruthlessly dragged away.

      Then with two or three leather belts she was securely tied to the flagstaff, whilst a thick woollen scarf was wound round her face and neck, leaving only the eyes free to roam wildly on the awful scene around.

      Awful indeed!

      Man turned to savage beast in the frenzy of his own fear.

      Swift and silent, like so many rodents in the night, the men began collecting bits of wood, broke up their sticks into small pieces, tore branches down from the old elm tree.

      Matthew the while, still the ringleader of this dastardly crew, was directing these gruesome operations.

      "Hist!" he admonished incessantly, "not so much noise… We don't want the guard to come this way, do we?.. Now, John the smith, quick, where's thy resin?.. James the wheelwright, thy tinder, friend… Here! these faggots are not close enough… Some more on the left there!"

      And the men, as alert as their clumsy bodies would allow, as quick as the darkness would permit, groaning, sweating, falling up against one another, worked with a will to accomplish the end which they had in view.

      To burn the witch!

      And she, the woman, her poor wits almost gone at sight of this fast approaching, inevitable doom, did not attempt to struggle. Had the gag been removed from her mouth she would not have uttered a sound.

      Nature, more merciful than her own children, had paralysed the brain of the wretched girl and left her semi-imbecile, crazed, watching now with uncomprehending eyes the preparations for her own appalling death.

      "Watch how the witch will burn!" said Matthew in a hoarse whisper. "Her soul will fly out of her mouth, and it'll be shaped like a black cat."

      They had all descended the steps and were standing in a semicircle on the turf below, looking up at the miserable holocaust which they were about to offer up to their own cowardly superstition.

      James the wheelwright was busy with his tinder, with John the smith bending over him, ready with a resin torch, which would start the conflagration.

      And Mirrab, looking down on them with lack-lustre, idiotic eyes! Her body had fallen in a strange, shapeless heap across the leather bonds which held her, her feet were buried in the pile of faggots, whilst her fingers worked convulsively behind the flagstaff to which they were tied.

      Ye gods, what a spectacle!

      The Duke of Wessex, having taken leave of his friend, had been idly strolling towards the witch's booth, always closely followed by faithful Harry Plantagenet. At first sight of a group of men dimly outlined in the darkness he scarcely realized what was happening.

      The fitful flicker of the torch, as the resin became ignited, threw the more distant figure of the woman into complete gloom.

      Then there was a sudden shout of triumph. The torch was blazing at last.

      "The holy fire!.. Burn the witch!"

      John the smith, holding the torch aloft, inspired by the enthusiasm of his friends, had turned towards the steps.

      For the space of one second the red glow illumined that helpless bundle of gaudy tinsel only dimly suggesting a woman's form beneath it, which hung limply from the flagstaff.

      Then Wessex understood.

      He had already drawn nigh, attracted by idle curiosity, but now with one bound he reached the steps. Striking out with his fists at two or three men who barred the way, he suddenly stood confronting these miscreants, the light of the torch glowing on the rich silk of his doublet, the jewelled agraffe of his hat, his proud, serious face almost distorted by overwhelming wrath.

      "What damnable piece of mischief is this?" he said peremptorily.

      He had scarcely raised his voice, for they were all silent, having retreated somewhat at sight of this stranger who barred the way.

      The instinct of submission and deference to the lord was inborn in the country lout of these days. Their first movement was one of respectful awe. But this was only momentary. The excitement was too great, too real, to give way to this gallant, alone with only an elegant sword to stand between him and the mad desire for the witch's death.

      "Out of the way, stranger!" shouted Matthew lustily from the rear of the group, "this is no place for fine gentlemen. Up with thy torch, John the smith! No one interferes here!"

      "No! no! forward, John the smith!" exclaimed the others as with one voice.

      But John the smith, torch in hand, could not very well advance. The fine gentleman was standing on the steps above him with a long pointed sword in his hand.

      "The first one of you who sets foot on these steps is a dead man," he had said as soon as the shouts had subsided.

      John the smith did not altogether care to be that notable first.

      "Here! Harry, old friend," added the Duke, calling his dog to his side, "you see these miscreants there, when I say 'Go!' you have my permission to spring at the throat of the man who happens to be on these steps at the time."

      Harry Plantagenet no doubt understood what was expected of him. His great jaws were slightly open, showing a powerful set of very unpleasant-looking teeth; otherwise for the moment he looked placid enough. He stood at the very top of the steps, his head on a level with his master's shoulder, and was wagging his tail in a pleasant, friendly spirit.

      Matthew, however, had, not unjustly up to now, earned the respect of his friends. Whilst John the smith was still hesitating, he had already made a quick mental calculation that one Court gallant and his dog could be no real match against five-and-twenty lusty fellows with hard fists, who were determined to get their own way.

      He elbowed his way to the front, pushed the smith aside, and began peremptorily —

      "Stranger! – "

      "Call me not stranger, dolt, I am the Duke of Wessex, and if thou dost not immediately betake thyself elsewhere, I'll have thee whipped till thou bleed. Now then, ye louts!" he added, addressing the now paralysed group of men, "off with your caps in my presence – quick's the word!"

      There was dead silence, broken only by an occasional groan of real, tangible fright.

      "The Duke of Wessex! Merciful heavens! he'll have us all hanged!" murmured Matthew as he fell on his knees.

      One by one, still in complete silence, the caps were doffed. His Grace of Wessex! Future King of England mayhap! And they had dared to threaten him!

      "Holy Virgin protect the lot of us!"

      One man, more alert than his fellows, well in the rear of the group, began crawling away on hands and knees,

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