But in a corner, stuck against the wall, was something which chilled
Hereward's blood a little. A dried human hand, which he knew must have
been stolen off the gallows, gripping in its fleshless fingers a candle,
which he knew was made of human fat. That candle, he knew, duly lighted
and carried, would enable the witch to walk unseen into any house on
earth, yea, through the court of King William himself, while it drowned
all men in preternatural slumber.
Hereward was very much frightened. He believed as devoutly in the powers
of a witch as did then--and does now, for aught Italian literature, _e
permissu superiorum_, shows--the Pope of Rome.
So he trembled on his rushes, and wished himself safe through that
adventure, without being turned into a hare or a wolf.
"I would sooner be a wolf than a hare, of course, killing being more in my
trade than being killed; but--who comes here?"
And to the first old crone, who sat winking her bleared eyes, and warming
her bleared hands over a little heap of peat in the middle of the cabin,
entered another crone, if possible uglier.
"Two of them! If I am not roasted and eaten this night, I am a lucky man."
And Hereward crossed himself devoutly, and invoked St. Ethelfrida of Ely,
St. Guthlac of Crowland, St. Felix of Ramsey,--to whom, he recollected, he
had been somewhat remiss; but, above all, St.
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