"Does England really want me?" he said with gentle irony. "Nay!" he added, restraining with one hand Everingham's exuberant protests, "I know! I know! you all think so, and that I am an unhallowed idler, letting my country drift into the arms of the foreigner. Do not deny it, friend. . . . Perhaps I am. . . . Nay! we'll say, indeed I am. . . . There! there! calm your fears. Have I not told you that Her Majesty hath commanded my presence at Court? We'll set our poor wits to oust Spanish diplomacy, and I must trust my luckiest star to inspire in the Lady Ursula a wholesome desire for the convent; for I tell thee, friend, that if she holds me to my silken bonds, I will at once repair to the outermost corner of the earth and thence drop into vacancy, or take flight to the blue dome of heaven above." "God protect Your Grace," rejoined Everingham with grave solemnity. "Ah! I fear no Spanish influence now," he added enthusiastically. "You'll save England, my lord, and the gratitude of the nation will be at your feet." Wessex smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and without further allusion to more serious subjects the two men mingled once more among the crowd. CHAPTER IX THE VEILED WITCH Outside the witch's tent all was silent and deserted. Darkness had gradually crept in, and with it--as far as the rest of the Fair was concerned--additional noise and exuberant gaiety. Huge torches of gum and resin flickered at the entrance of every booth, throwing quaint red lights, and deep, mysterious shadows all round, distorting the faces of the gaping multitude, and of the criers, until they looked like fantastic figures, wizards all from some neighbouring Brocken. Whether the world-famous necromancer, Mirrab, and her attendant genii were lacking in business or no, no one could say, for there was no torch outside their tent, and Abra had ceased to lure the passer-by. The open place in front of the platform was dark and still. Suddenly from out the shadows something seemed to move forward, whilst a mysterious "Hist! hist!" came echoing from more than one direction. Gradually the sound became more distinct, dark figures emerged from every side, and presently a compact group of moving, whispering people congregated some few yards away from the booth. Then a voice, still low and muffled, but firm and emphatic, detached itself from the ghostlike murmur around. "My masters, I call upon you to witness! . . . The Scriptures say, 'Let no witch live.' . . . Shall we disobey the Scriptures and allow that witch to live? . . . She is possessed, and the devil dwells in that booth." Groans and threatening curses greeted this peroration. The speaker raised his voice somewhat. "Will you allow Satan to remain amongst you?" "No! no! no!" came in excited accents from the little crowd. "And I say death to the witch!" added the leading voice solemnly. "Death to the witch!" came in weird echoes from all around.