Carthew’s words were few but explicit. “The sky was very dark—there seemed more thunder and lightning than there had been. I was several miles this side of Hawthorn. I was riding without regarding the road, my mind being on other things. My horse stopped short, then reared. I felt the blow. It was given by a cloaked figure that immediately vanished.... Yes, it bore resemblance to the leech, Gilbert Aderhold.” The words fell, aimed and deliberate, like the executioner’s flaming tow upon the straw between the piled logs. A stillness followed as though the throng were waiting with parted lips for the long upward run of the flame. Then out of it came Joan’s voice, quiet, distinct, clear, pitched loudly enough to reach from wall to wall. “Thou liar! Know all here that that man whom Will the smith’s son has called the black man and saw through my window—that man”—she stood, her arm outstretched and her finger pointing—“that man was this man who speaks to you! Know all here that for weary months Master Harry Carthew had pursued and entreated me who speak to you now—that when he turned that afternoon upon the Hawthorn road it was to ride to Heron’s cottage and break in upon me there! Know that Will the smith’s son, looking through the window, saw _him_. But he, hearing those two knock, and fearing discovery that would spot his fame, snatched up his cloak and made off through another door. But he hid not far away, and when they were gone and darkness had fallen, back he came, stealing in at night upon a woman alone. Know all of you here that I wanted not his love. Know all that we struggled together, and that I struck him in the side with a hunting-knife. Know all that he rode from Heron’s cottage to Carthew House, and to save himself lied as you have heard!” She stood an instant longer with her arm outstretched and her eyes upon Carthew, then slowly turned, moved past Aderhold, and, taking her place between Mother Spuraway and Grace Maybank, leaned her elbow on her knee and her chin on her hand. The Witch Judge’s instantaneous thunder, the clamour of voices, the hubbub in the hall appeared to give her no especial concern. When silence was obtained, and Carthew, white as death, gave a categorical denial, she only slightly moved her shoulders, and continued her contemplative gaze upon this scene and much besides. That if the crowd could have gotten at her she would most likely have paid with death at once for her brazen mendacity, her measureless vile attempt to blacken one whom the Enemy most evidently feared and hated, appeared to trouble her neither. She sat as still as though consciousness were elsewhere....