THE days passed leisurely up at the castle, naught of vast import to mark their flight. June was now in, the month of roses, with long sunny days, with nights of brief duration.

Isabel, finding time hang somewhat heavy on her hands, turned yet closer attention to our Jester. Her interest in him had not waned; I am by no means sure that it had not increased. Recognizing his homage, she yet felt there was that in him which eluded her. Seeking to discover it she found herself baffled. While tantalizing it yet spurred her to further interest. Musing on the thought in her idle hours the desire to discover that which eluded her became somewhat of an obsession. She carried it with her throughout the day, took it to her couch as bedfellow.

Her women in these days found her ill to please. The dowager of them, one time in sort her nurse, now an old dame who seldom left her own chamber, never the castle, prescribed tisanes for her health, noxious concoctions of which the chief ingredient was the liquid from stewed rosemary, a mightily unpleasant herb to the palate. Mary would have her walk abroad, try fresh designs for her embroidery; and for my part I find her simple prescription wholesome. Leonora frankly saw mere ill-temper in her peevishness. Monica said rosaries for her, and truly prayer may take effect where all else fails. Brigid, very observant, said little, offered no remedies, but none the less she thought a good deal, fancied at one moment her thoughts were to some purpose, the next was none so sure of it. And then the clue came to her hand.

I know not how Isabel’s mind began to turn upon the wise woman, so reputed, who dwelt in a mud-walled hovel in a distant combe among the moors. Perchance she happened at this time to catch some whisper of her from an over-credulous serving-wench; perchance the knowledge of the old crone’s whereabouts had been with her before this, and now recurred fresh to her mind. Certain it is that Isabel, brooding, saw possibility of aid in that quarter. The notion was unquestionably prompted by foolishness, probably by something more evil. Once presented it conjoined with her former thought, not to leave. This, too, was a thought which might be brought to deed. Seeing this Isabel was ready to act. It was not her way to dally when she saw possibility before her.

One night sleep forsook Brigid’s couch. Lying wide-eyed and wakeful an oppression fell upon her, not wholly of evil, yet something of that brand. Whispering an Ave she sought to free herself from it, yet to no purpose. Paternosters, the Sign of the Cross alike availed her naught. Moved by a sudden impulse she rose from her bed, went to the window.

Below her lay the garden bathed in quiet light. Beyond the shadow close beneath her window she could see clearly the expanse of turf, the gravel paths, the flower beds, all softly illumined in the moon-rays. Very still she watched, believing there was something about to happen, yet unknowing what it might be. At what exact moment a figure emerged from the shadow below her window Brigid knew not; suddenly she saw it, dark-robed, standing on the turf. For the space of a heart’s beat the thought of some earth-bound spirit, some poor wandering ghost flashed to her mind, caused her a second’s tremor. Yet a tremor succeeded verily by a greater shock. The figure turned, glanced momentarily towards the windows of the castle. Brigid saw the face clearly outlined in the moonlight, saw, too, in the movement one fearful of detection.

Swift as lightning she turned towards the room, threw garments upon herself with never a thought to their careful donning, slipped down the stairs and out into the soft June night. Here the garden lay silent, slumbering, no hint of restless figure to disturb its peace. Some might have believed themselves dreaming, illusioned, yet Brigid was very sure of her wakefulness, her sanity. Her mind brought quick to bear on possibilities she bethought her of the wicket gate beyond the lime trees, which led to the tiny copse fringing at that part the parkland. It would afford cover to one desirous of crossing the park unperceived by any watcher from the castle.

Brigid entered the copse. Here it was nearly dark, the moon-rays struggling fitfully through the thick-leaved branches overhead. Hastening, yet warily, fearful of coming too close upon the pursued and thereby discovering her pursuit, she made her way along the path, her ears alert to catch the sound of snapped twig ahead. Fearing imprudence she somewhat overdid her care, since, reaching the edge of the copse, she saw the figure far across the parkland, vanishing up the distant rise.

Brigid caught up her dress, sped forward hot-footed. Two thoughts were in her mind as she ran; one, that had she been closer on the scent there had been danger of the figure turning, and thereby detecting her in the open space of park, the trees being set wide apart; the other, that, should the pursued attain to the cross-roads up yonder before she once more gained sight of her, the scent would be truly lost, pursuit well-nigh hopeless, since of the end of this midnight roaming she had no inkling. This latter thought in mind she called the saints to her aid, and sped the faster. Though sound of wind and limb she was breathless as she breasted the top of the rise, had perforce to pause a moment’s space; then she was on again, this time along a road. Turning a bend of it some hundred yards or so from the crossways, she saw the figure ahead of her, and thereupon put up a fervent thanksgiving. Slacking speed on the instant she crept cautiously along in the shadow of the hedge, keeping to the rough grass close below it, fearful lest the sound of her footfall should betray her pursuit.

At the cross-roads the figure turned to the left, Brigid following warily enough. The pace now giving time for reflection other than of mere pursuit, she fell to marvelling what this mad ramble portended. Had she not observed the half-scared glance towards the Castle she might have deemed Isabel sleep-walking, but having seen it this chance notion was dismissed with no second thought. There was purpose in this journey, and that a very definite one. But what purpose? Brigid cudgelled her brains to no end. A less clean mind than hers might have seen some dishonourable meeting ahead. Of such she had no thought. Frankly puzzled she found no solution of the riddle. Of what aid she might be in the matter afoot she thought not then any more than she had thought at the outset. Possibly at first curiosity had pricked her to the pursuit, though to my thinking it was chiefly some unconscious instinct of protection.

Presently the road divided, leftwards descending in a gentle decline, to the right branching in a rough track across the moorland. Isabel turned to the right. Dodging in the shadow of gorse bushes Brigid followed her. Verily must the matter on hand be of great moment. For no mere wild goose chase could Isabel be pursuing this desolate path at night. Dawning fatigue in a degree dulling interest Brigid began to experience some slight tremor at the loneliness to which she had come. The moorland stretched before her and on either hand, a vast undulating space broken by gorse bushes, distantly fringed by woods lying like dark patches in the moonlight. Once, far to the right, she caught a glimpse of moving antlers, where a herd of deer roamed among the heather. Awe at the silence and stillness clutched at her heart. Again she cried upon the saints. If you will believe me, Brigid gave them scant rest that night.

Topping a rise Isabel began to descend. Here the descent was steep, fell swiftly to a combe bottomed by a small copse. By the quickened pace of her Brigid believed she saw her journey’s end in sight. Her own heart beat faster; fatigue in part forgotten, interest stirred anew.

At the bottom of the combe she saw a light, steady in the shadow under the hillside. Where there is a light there must needs be some creature to kindle the light; this was Brigid’s judging. Yet who should dwell in that lonely place? And why, greater matter for surmise, should Isabel seek the dweller there? That she did seek him or her was very certain, since unfaltering she made her way towards the light. It came, Brigid now marked, from a mud hovel; the flame gleamed yellow through an aperture in the wall.

Isabel went up to the door, knocked. Brigid crouched breathless in the shadow of a bush. On the instant the flame was extinguished. The aperture sank back into the darkness of the wall. Brigid caught the murmur of Isabel’s voice speaking. The door was opened cautiously. In the space she saw a woman’s figure, bent, the head thrust forward. The moonlight falling on her face showed her of great age. The toothless mouth trembled and mumbled; the bleary eyes peered upwards from deep sockets; scant white locks fell across them. There came to her ear a further low murmur of words. Next Isabel entered the hovel; the door was shut.

Brigid sprang to her feet, the riddle well-nigh answered. Witchery of some sort Isabel had come to seek, white or black, it mattered little. White, it turned black in the fingering; black, it changed to very filth. Here she read the meaning of the oppression which had fallen upon her, which had held her wakeful.

“St. Brigid to her aid and mine,” she whispered, making for the window, peering cautiously within. To make her presence known, to attempt persuasion in the matter, would be worse than fruitless; that she well knew. She had not served Isabel three years for nothing.

Her chin level with the window ledge, her eyes sought the interior of the hovel. In the dim glow of a peat fire she saw the room; a bare place enough, mud-floored, full of cobwebs and the thick scent of peat smoke. This scent and others more unwholesome caused a very vile odour. In one corner was a heap of heather and dried skins; across another, suspended by a frayed rope, hung a tattered curtain. A table, a bench, a chair on which sat Isabel, a stool for the hag, made up the furniture of the place.

The two were sitting by the hearth; Isabel upright, distaste very much in her bearing; the hag crouching towards the fire, holding claw-like hands to the warmth, muttering the while. Presently the muttering gave place to words.

“Greed, greed,” came the mumbled speech. “Thou hast much; what more dost thou desire?”

“That which eludes me.” The sound of the even, familiar voice in the vile-smelling place caused Brigid’s heart to beat anew.

Balda the Witch laughed, a very mirthless sound, harsh as the scraping of iron on flint.

“Wait, then,” she mumbled, straightening herself on the stool.

In the horrid silence Brigid stared towards the motionless figures, breath suspended. Her will beating back the horror that was creeping over her, she assured herself that this was foolishness in the guise of evil; yet the assurance brought her no vast solace. Further she told herself, being sane and healthy of mind, that it was the excitement of the midnight journey, the silence around her, which had wrought her nerves to a pitch of imagination, caused her to fancy darkness other than mere shadow lurking in the corners. Yet, for all that, she found herself whispering, “Scuto circumdabit te veritas ejus: non timebis a timore nocturno.”

For a space the silence endured, how long she knew not, having ceased to be aware of the passing moments. Then on a sudden came a sibilant murmur, seemingly from so great a distance that it was with fresh horror she realized it issued from one of the motionless figures by the hearth.

“That which thou dost desire is above thee. Yet must thou stoop to obtain it. Thus, and thus only canst thou grasp it, to wrest it from the Power where it lies.” The voice stopped. A moment’s silence followed on the words. Then once more came the voice, rising like a cry forced from an unwilling throat. “Yet who, with impunity, shall war with God? I, even I, Balda the Witch, say to thee, Beware.”

Once more the silence fell. Brigid clutched the window ledge with shaking hands.

“This is all foolishness to the verge of madness,” she whispered. A certain loyalty to Isabel, and, I fancy, terror lest the mere mention of her dread should draw it nearer, constrained her use of a harsher phrase.

Balda’s figure relaxed from its rigid pose. Bending once more towards the fire she fell again to mumbling.

“Art frighted?” She stretched out one skinny claw, laid it on Isabel’s wrist. “Good; I feel no tremor. Pride and desire should carry thee far along the road I have traversed. The hand is moist and cool. There is no fear here such as kneels quaking at the window.” On the words she turned, pointing a palsied finger. Her red-rimmed eyes, deep in their sockets, looked straight at Brigid.

Had Brigid but known how nigh on empty of sight were those bleared terrible eyes, she had ducked below the window on the instant, made for the copse, and so escaped. Knowing it not, and seeing full accusation and discovery in the pointing finger, she knelt on, startled, turned to stone by the swiftness of the happening.

A moment at a loss for Balda’s meaning Isabel still gazed at the fire, then realizing, she turned, saw the white wide-eyed face at the window.

“Brigid!” she cried, her voice on a harsh note of anger.

Isabel went straight to the door. Without she confronted Brigid risen from her knees. The two faced each other in the moonlight.

“Spy,” said Isabel; that and no more.

Brigid, chin raised, uttered no word. She looked very straight at Isabel, who cared not to meet her eyes. There was certainly no shame in them.

Balda the Witch peered from the doorway. Well-nigh devoid of sight she scented the mental atmosphere, found that in the one woman ill-suited to her liking. Momentarily her spirit cowered. Muttering an oath she withdrew, slammed the door.

“Shall we return?” said Isabel silkily.