Ah, that is right; she takes courage, strives to rise,--no, she is down again. “I cannot,” she says, “my limbs are frozen; take the child, save my Cuthbert.” “I would fain save you both,” says the man, but he strives in vain to do so, it is beyond his power to carry them, and _she_ can move no further; she but rises to sink again on the bank, her limbs have lost their power. “Take my child,” she says once more, “and leave me to die; heaven is kinder than man, and the good angels are very near.” The yeoman, for such he is, hesitates, “No one shall say that Giles Hodge forsook thee in thy strait, yet, there is the keeper’s cottage within a mile, if I run and take the babe, I may come back and save thee.” “Go, go, for heaven’s sake, my boy _must_ live, his precious life _must_ be saved, then come back for me; he is the heir of”-- Here her voice failed her. “She speaks the words of wisdom,” says Giles, and he takes the babe, leaving the shawl wrapped round the mother. “Nay, the shawl, take the shawl for the babe.” “I can carry it ’neath my smock, and ’twill come to no harm, thou wouldst die without it.” She starts up, imprints one fervent kiss upon the babe ere it leaves her; alas, it is the last feeble outcome of strength. Giles runs along the road, as fast as the ground, heavy with snow, and the wind, will permit him; he reaches the house of Stephen Ringwood, the deputy keeper; it is now Curfew time, and the honest woodman is just putting out his fire to go to bed. “Stephen, Stephen,” shouts Giles, as he knocks at the door. A loud and heavy barking from the throats of deep-chested dogs. “Who is there?” “Thy old crony, Giles Hodge; open to me at once.” The door opens. “What Saint has sent thee here! and a babe too?” “Oh, Stephen, come directly, and help me bring the _mother_ in; she is out in the snow, spent with toil, and if we arrive not soon she will be _dead_.” “I have some warm milk on the fire; here, Susan, give some to the babe and give me the rest,” and putting it into a horn, the two started back, leaving the infant with the keeper’s wife. They reach the tree again. How still she is. Giles trembles, bless his tender heart. It is no discredit to thy manhood, Giles. “Yes, she is dead, she has given her last kiss to the babe.” They put together some short poles and cord they have brought, which make a sort of litter. “Carry her gently, Stephen,” says Giles as he wipes his eyes with the sleeves of his smock, “carry her gently, she said the good angels were near her, and I believe they are watching us now, if they are not on the road to paradise with her soul.” FOOTNOTES [3] See Note A., Antiquities of Glastonbury. CHAPTER I. _ALL-HALLOW EVEN._