The old man and she faced each other, between them but a narrow space of the forest road. Her face was mobile, transparent,—a clear window through which much of her nature might be read. She had never thought to try to veil it—never until of late. It was, on the whole, a strong and beautiful nature, and none had quarrelled with the face that was its window. But of late there had come into her life to work her injury something bitter, poisonous, and dark. Fear and hatred had come, and a burning wrath against the net that was weaving, she knew not how—a wrath and helplessness and a wrath against her helplessness. All her nature flamed against a lie and an injustice. And because she had known so little fear, and when it came it found it hard to make an entry, so it worked like poison when it was within the citadel. It was the foe she liked least; all her being rose and wrought to cast it out. But it was giving her a fight—it was giving her a fight.... And nowadays she had to try not to show what she thought or felt. Sometimes, by force of wit and will, she succeeded, keeping her soul back from the window of her face. She was not succeeding now, she felt. She bit her lips, she struggled, she turned her face from Goodman Cole, and stood, her hands closing and unclosing, then, the victory won, but too late to save her with him, she turned upon him a quiet face. It was too late. A good old man, but simple and superstitious, he was staring at her with a misliking and terror of his own. “I’d heard tales, but I wouldn’t believe any real harm of Heron’s daughter,—but God knows what to think when a woman looks like that!” He edged from her, his hand trembled upon his staff; he would evidently put distance between them, be gone on his way. “The minister saith that from the Witch of Endor on they have baleful eyes—” He suddenly put himself in motion. “Good-day to you!” he said in a quavering voice, and went on down the road with a more rapid step than was his wont. CHAPTER XVI MASTER THOMAS CLEMENT TWO magistrates and certain of the clergy of the town, Justice Carthew and Master Thomas Clement from Hawthorn, sat in consultation in a room opening from the hall of assizes. Court was not sitting—it lacked a month and more of the time when judges on circuit would appear and make a gaol delivery. In the mean time a precognition was to be prepared. The case was diabolical and aggravated, involving as it did apostasy, idolatry, blasphemy, and sorcery of a dye most villanous. Evidence should not lack, witnesses must abound. On the main counts of apostasy and blasphemy the prisoner was himself convict by himself. He had been brought from the prison hard by to this room for examination, and the clergy had questioned him. But no pressure or cunning questions would make him confess idolatry or sorcery or the procuring of Master Harry Carthew’s wound.