"Courage, poor soul!" he cried earnestly. "Pray with me for mercy in that other land." The wretched woman seemed to be brought back by the parson's voice, and she stared at him in a curiously dazed manner, her lips moving at last in a whisper that could not be heard. "Pray with me, my poor soul--let us pray," cried Master Peasegood eagerly. "No," she said sharply. "It be too late. I want to do some good before I die." "And it is too late for that," said Master Peasegood to himself, as the excited murmur of the crowd went on. "No, not to do--to say something, Master--and--and it seems all gone. Yes; I know," she cried, striving hard to hold up her head, which fell back again heavily upon her chest. "No, I can't remember. Yes, Mace, come here, child. I'll give thee to thy father now." "Poor soul, she wanders," muttered Master Peasegood. Then aloud:--"Try to pray with me, mother. Try--one word." "Yes, I was not a witch, master. It was only--Where be Jeremiah Cobbe? Here, let me tell him--quick." "He cannot reach thee now, poor soul. Pray with me quickly. Oh, Father have--" "Mace. Here--quick, child, come. Poor sweet--I had to fight hard to hate thee. My head--my head." Master Peasegood stretched out a hand to try and sustain the palsied head. "Stand back, sir," cried Sir Mark fiercely; and he laid his hand upon Master Peasegood's arm, but the stout cleric shook him off. "Back yourself, sir," he cried, "an' you would not singe your gaudy plumes. My place is here." Sir Mark stood back, for at that moment the smoking, flaming torch was thrust into the brushwood, which began to crackle and burn furiously, while a pillar of smoke rose high in the still autumn air, in company with a shriek from the women, some of whom turned away, while others covered their faces with their hands. The torch was thrust into the faggots again and again, four times in all, and at each thrust there was a burst of flame and a cloud of smoke; but Master Peasegood stirred not, though the flames licked his long black garb. The torch-bearer then rose up, and was in the act of thrusting his light right in the centre of the pile, when a strong hand seized it, wrenched it from his hand, and hurled it, as the man staggered back, full in the face of Sir Mark. A loud chirping whistle rang out at the same moment, and a score of the rough country fellows in long gaberdines, who had been so busy in helping, now took advantage of their forward position to seize the burning faggots and hurl them furiously at the armed men. Almost before the crowd could realise what was taking place, the flaming brushwood was scattered far and wide, and amidst the smoke a tall, bronzed fellow was seen cutting Mother Goodhugh free. "Take her, Wat; she's as light as any child," he cried, in a clear voice. "Lead on, we'll cover you."