“Ay,” assented the maid. “Old Goody Jones is to be hanged for witchery this day week. One morn, who should find his nag steaming, flecked with foam, its mane plaited to make the bridle, but our good Neighbour Root. When I heard tell o’ it, I cut across the clearing to his barn before breakfast, and with my own eyes saw the nag with its plaited mane and tail. Neighbour Root suspicioned who the witch was that had been riding it, but he, being an o’er-cautious man, kept a close mouth. Well, at dawn, two days later, he jumped wide-awake all in a minute,—he had been sleeping with an eye half-cocked, as it were,—for he heard the barn door slam. He rose and lit his lantern and went out. There he saw Goody Jones hiding in a corner of the stall, her eyes shining like a cat’s. When she saw he kenned her, she gave a wicked screech and flew by him in the form o’ an owl. He was so afeared lest she should bewitch him, that he trembled till his red cotton nightcap fell off. It was found in the stall by our goodly magistrate in proof o’ Neighbour Root’s words.” The Cavalier’s face grew grim. “Ay,” he muttered, “the Lord will yet make these people repent the innocent blood they shed. Hark ye, little mistress, I have travelled in far countries, where they have the Black Plague and terrible diseases ye wot not of. Yet this plague of witchery is worse than all,—ay, even than the smallpox.” He shrugged his shoulders and looking down at the ground, frowned and shook his head. But as he glanced up at the maid’s troubled countenance, his gloom was dispelled by a sunny smile. He reached out and took her hand, and patted it between his big warm palms. “Dear child,” he said, “be not afeared of witches, but bethink yourself to keep so fair and shining a conscience that Satan and his hags who work by the powers of darkness cannot approach you. We have a play-actor in England, a Merry Andrew of the town, a slender fellow withal, yet possessed of a pretty wit, for wit, my little maid, is no respecter of persons, and springs here and there, like as one rose grows in the Queen’s garden and another twines ’round the doorway of the poor. Well, this fellow has written that, ‘far as a little candle throws its beams, so shines a good deed in a naughty world.’ Many a time have I catched myself smiling at the jingle, for it minds me of how all good children are just so many little candles shining out into the black night of this evil world. When you are older grown you will perceive that I spake true words. Still, regarding witches, I would not have you o’er bold nor frequent churchyards by night, for there, I, myself, have seen with these very eyes, ghosts and wraiths pale as blue vapour standing by the graves. And at cockcrow they have flown away.” He released her hand. “Come now,” he said lightly, “you have not told me why you were made to stand on a block of wood all day.”