A little later, hatted and cloaked, he stepped into Hawthorn street. As he did so he looked northward and, seeing Squire Carthew riding in from Carthew House, stood and waited. The squire approached, gave good-morning, and dismounted. He nodded his head; ponderously energetic he had put already his engines into motion. The constable with helpers was gone at sunrise to take into custody Mother Spuraway, have her into the village, and thrust her into the room beneath the sexton’s house that did for village gaol. To-morrow, after examination, and if proof of her evil-doing were forthcoming, she should be sent to town and quartered in the prison with the leech. Orders likewise had been given to the North-End Farm folk to bring into Hawthorn the afflicted boy. To confront the injurer with the injured, that was the best and approved way— “How is Harry Carthew this morning?” “Very fevered still. He talks strangely and paganly—about gods and goddesses and Love and the Furies and I know not what trash.” “Ah!” said Master Clement. “Were it devil or Gilbert Aderhold who struck him that night, be sure from the dagger would have run Satan’s own venom, empoisoning the mind, bringing growth of nettles and darnel into the soul! The godly young man! I will pray—I will wrestle with God in prayer for Harry Carthew—” From beyond the church there burst a small riot of sound. “They’ve got Mother Spuraway—” The constable had his hand upon the old woman’s arm and dragged her along, she being lame and stumbling. Behind them marched the constable’s helpers, a self-constituted posse. Here was the father of the afflicted boy, and Lukin the carter, and a ditcher whose arm was palsied, and one or two others. A dozen boys brought up the rear. One had run ahead to cry to the village what was happening. Everybody was coming to door and window, out of doors, into the street. Voices buzzed and clacked. The witch fever was mounting, mounting, hardening the heart, confusing the head! When Mother Spuraway saw the minister and the squire, for all she was as old and spare and feeble as a dried reed, she broke from the constable, and, running to them, fell upon her knees and raising her clasped hands began at once to protest her innocence and to beg for mercy. The squire spoke to the North End farmer. “They’re bringing your son in?” “Aye, sir. His mother and sister and my son that’s married and his wife and my niece and Humphrey Tanner. He’s twisting fearful, and he sees the dog come day and come night!” “Your worship, your worship!” cried the old woman on her knees. “I never could abide dogs—Is it likely I’d trouble a child?—Oh, Master Clement—”