There could not have been a fairer autumn day. And now as they rode the country grew more and more familiar.... While the day was yet young, all were halted for a few minutes before a tavern set among trees, its sign a great rose painted on a black ground. While ale in jacks and tankards was brought forth for the guardians of the law, the two prisoners had brief speech together. “The Rose Tavern,” said Aderhold. “It was in this place that I first met Master Hardwick. It was here that came the turn toward Hawthorn.” “We have not far to go now.” “No, not far.” In the doorway stood the tall hostess that Aderhold remembered. She stood with arms akimbo, regarding the prisoners with a mien so hostile as to approach the ferocious. “Aaah!” she said. “I’d like to help bring straw and wood!” She spat toward the two. “Haven’t _I_ had things bewitched?—a gold earring taken from under my eyes, and our ricks burned, and ill luck for a year running—and a bat this summer came flapping through the house every eve, and none could beat it down!” She was speaking to the constable’s man who knew Hawthorn. “Wherever that vile witch has been this weary time, be sure she’s sent her word out over all these parts to do us harm—” “And that’s very possible,” said the round-faced man. “Aren’t you going to take them by Hawthorn?” “Yes,” answered the other. “Turn off this side of town—go round by Hawthorn Wood—then through Hawthorn, and so back to town and the prison. It’s miles out, but Hawthorn wants it done. There’s a murmur of more witches—and it’s good warning to see how such folk fare!” Joan and Aderhold, startled, exchanged glances. They had not thought of that—of coming to their prison from the Hawthorn end. They would be longer together. Joan’s lips parted. “And Hawthorn Forest—Ah, maybe we shall see Heron’s cottage—” The sun and shadow on the road, the waving trees, the white fleets of clouds in a blue, blue sky.... They came to the crossroads with the suicide’s grave—they came to the rise of earth where stood the gibbet with its swinging chains—they came to a view of the castle wood and the castle and the town beyond. One of the men asked a question of the round-faced man. “Who lives up there?” “The earl,” said the round-faced man. “But he’s away now. It used to be that if he wasn’t there his cousin, Sir Richard, was. But Sir Richard went to France, and they say he married there and has a son.—I used to know Gervaise his man. But Gervaise has gone too.” The sun made of the castle woods golden woods. Joan could see the Black Tower—see where deep among the trees would be the huntsman’s house. A great bird rose above the gold-green and sailed away.... Here, a mile from the first outlying house, was the narrow and little-used road that, curving aside from the town, led through some miles of country, tilled and untilled, to Hawthorn Forest; then, with a half turn, came at its leisure to Hawthorn, and so touched again the highway. They took this road.