The horse was shod, the well-water drunk, guard and prisoners took again the road. The smith and his man had, at the last, their curiosity satisfied. “Witches and wizards!—Nay, if I had known that—” The road presented its stream, here full, here very thin, of autumn travel. Little pictures and the whole picture had a clear, a vivid interest. Market people went by, drovers with cattle, sturdy beggars, children, country girls and swains, carters and their carts, mounted travel of merchants or justices or churchmen or country gentlemen. The mounted travel would always, authoritatively, have its curiosity gratified. “A ward with prisoners!—Who are your prisoners, sheriff?” The second morning it was a party of young gallants who would know this. They wore feathered hats, fine riding-clothes, boots of soft leather, their hair somewhat long and curled. They were for King and Church—would all live, perhaps, to fight on that side. “Prisoners! What are your prisoners, sirrah!” Then, when they knew,—“Witch! Witch! A young witch, too! Let’s see her—Zounds! Who’s the man?... The Hawthorn two who fled! _Gilbert Aderhold—Joan Heron!_” Certain of these gallants had been in London and knew of the recapture. It had been common talk. The king had learned of it. “Joan Heron!—Joan Heron! Let’s see—let’s see! Grey eyes—gold hair—no, hair like bronze, pale bronze.... Would you dare to kiss a witch?”—“No!”—“Yes!”—“No!”—“Yes, I would!”—“To make the Devil jealous—that were a parlous thing!”—“Parlous or not, if she hath grey eyes and red lips—”—“Kiss her—clip her in thy arms and to-night she will come as _succuba_ and kiss and clip thee! Then hark to thy roar, ‘Avaunt, thou hag! Will none save me from the foul fiend?’”—“Joan Heron! Rememberest the ballad, THE DEVIL AND JOAN HERON?”—“But thou’rt not called ‘Daredevil’ for naught!”—“Do you dare me?”—“Yes, yes! We dare you!”—“Kiss her hard, clip her fast—No, no. Master Sheriff! Fair play—make a ring!... Now! Now!”... “_Well, thou hast courage!_”... “_She did not struggle,—as do honest women or those who would be thought honest!_” “To-night, to-night, when thou hast put out the light, look to find her!”—“Ha, ha! ha, ha! JOAN HERON—” They won away from those of the feathered hats. Space widened between the two cavalcades, the voices of the gallants died from the ear. The road lay bright and sunny, the morning air blew fresh and sweet. The great earth swept calm to the horizon, the sky sprang, a pure and cloudless arch. For a long way the road ran lonely of travellers other than the sheriff, his men, and the prisoners. Joan and Aderhold, riding together, talked in low tones. After a time they were passing through a forest. They loved the brown earth and the bracken, the boughs overhead, the purple distances. “I remember this wood,” said Aderhold. “I lay and rested under these trees and wondered what was before me.... And I could not see _thee_.—I did not know the lovely thing that was before me.”