They set down the hurdle close at Philip’s feet, and called loudly for justice and Sir Oliver. “Hag!”--“Crone!”--“Beldame!”--“To the faggot!”--“To the river,”--“Justice in the King’s name!”--were the various cries by which the impatient rustics frighted all the household of Milverton from their propriety and their pleasures, and brought most of them forth to the gate, and the rest to the hall steps, or the casements. Sir Oliver himself came forth, among the first, loudly rating them. “Why, how now, ye rude varlets; is Milverton a pot-house, and the seat of justice an ale bench? Speak--what would you?--speak, you, Morton,--you should know better than to head a rabble rout of this fashion.” “Why then, troth, Sir Oliver, as thou art a worshipful knight, and a king’s justice, not man, woman, nor child in the whole parish can sup their porridge in peace or sleep o’ nights for this old witch Margery: we’ve crown witness enough to hang, drown, and burn her twenty times over.” “Not so fast, not so fast, neighbour,” said Sir Oliver, seating himself on the stone from which old Philip had retired melting with fear. “Where are the witnesses, and what have they to say? Let them stand forth.” “First, here’s Master Crumble, the clerk; then, afore him, here’s Master Screw, the great witch-finder from Coventry; and here’s Jock, my carter; and old Blow, the blacksmith, and Pollard, your worship’s woodman.” “Stop, stop, I can’t hear all at once,--say thy say, Crumble.” “Why, your worship, my sow--your worship, my sow is dead: all of a sudden, this blessed morn, as I poured out her wash, down she lay all in the shivers; and if the poor dumb creature had been her own flesh and blood, my old woman could not ha’ taken on more. Says I, directly, ‘This is a bit of Margery’s work; for I see her brush the old sow with her black petticoat at the lane end, Sunday was a week.’ It’s quite a plain case you see, Sir Oliver.” “Stand back, you silly man.” “Silly, forsooth. I am thirty-seven year clerk of the parish, come next Lammas, and I say it’s writ on the Bible, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’” “That is true enough--it is so; but how do you know a witch?” “Why, I know that a man’s not a witch.” “That is true, thou art a man and no witch. But how dost thou know one?” “Why, it is an old woman, not to say any one, but a crook back, with a hooked nose, and a peaked chin like Margery.” “Master Crumble, I have done with thee, and in the matter of thy sow’s death do acquit Margery.” “That’s not crown law, nor Gospel charity,” said the old clerk, as he stepped back into the crowd, who muttered and whispered among each other till the next witness spoke out. This was the witch-finder. “Please your worship, I am ready to make oath that she hath a familiar, always about her in the shape of a brown mouse; for I have seen it crawling about her neck, and playing and feeding in her hand.”