The mutterings of the thunder became louder and deeper as the storm approached. The clouds scudded across the heavens swiftly, borne on the wings of a heavy wind. Suddenly a blinding flash of lightning zigzagged across the sky followed by a deafening crash of thunder, and the storm broke in all its force. The rain came down in torrents. The trees bent and swayed in the wind, tossing their proud heads as if in defiance to the storm king. The horse snorted in terror as flash after flash of lightning blazed across the road. Francis was drenched to the skin, but she struggled on, soothing the frightened animal as best she could. Presently she thought she saw an opening in the trees. Drawing closer she was overjoyed to find that there really was a path through the wood. Turning into it she followed it for some distance, finally coming to an open glade where stood what looked to be an ancient inn. One wing had fallen into decay. The rose covered trellis of the porch lay rotting on the ground. All about the building hung an air of dilapidation and decay that forbade the thought of cheer. One part of the tumbled down structure looked as though it might serve as a shelter, and the girl hastened to the door of this portion and knocked. There was no response, and Francis rapped again; this time more loudly than before, resolving to force the door should there be no answer. She waited a few moments, and then there came a high shrill voice from behind the closed door. "Who's there?" "One who desires shelter from the storm. Open, i' God's name!" "And who be ye that seek shelter of Dame Margery? Know you not that men call me the white witch?" "I care not," exclaimed Francis impatiently. "Open, woman, else I will force the door." There was a muttering of protest, then the bolts were drawn, and the door opened. A woman stood in the aperture. A woman, old and bent, and looking not unlike the witch she called herself. A hood of brown sat on her white hair; a brown lappet was thrown about her, and she supported herself by means of a staff. Her black eyes regarded the girl with keenness from under her shaggy brows. "Now thou art brave, forsooth, who dares take shelter here," she said. "There are those, and they are many, who would brave the fiercest storm rather than risk Dame Margery's evil eye." "But not I," said Francis boldly. Nevertheless she made the sign of the cross, for the age was a superstitious one and the belief in witches and witchcraft well nigh universal. "Good dame, tell me, I pray, where I may put my horse. Give us both shelter, and thou shall have this angel for thy guerdon." She held the gold piece out as she spoke. The woman's fingers closed over it eagerly. "Back of the house are the stables," she said a trifle more civilly. "There will ye find food for the beast as well as cover. But thou wilt have to be thine own groom, young sir. These old bones be racked with rheums."