“What! hast thou found it?” cried the hag.  “It shall bring thee rare luck, lad—­rare luck.  Now let me pass.”

“Not yet,” cried Nicholas, forcibly grasping her withered arm.

The hag uttered a scream of rage.

“Let me go, Nicholas Assheton,” she shrieked, “or thou shalt rue it.  Cramps and aches shall wring and rack thy flesh and bones; fever shall consume thee; ague shake thee—­shake thee—­ha!”

And Nicholas recoiled, appalled by her fearful gestures.

“You carry your malignity too far, old woman,” said Richard severely.

“And thou darest tell me so,” cried the hag.  “Set me before him, Nance, that I may curse him,” she added, raising her palsied arm.

“Nah, nah—­yo’n cursed ower much already, grandmother,” cried Nan Redferne, endeavouring to drag her away.  But the old woman resisted.

“I will teach him to cross my path,” she vociferated, in accents shrill and jarring as the cry of the goat-sucker.

“Handsome he is, it may be, now, but he shall not be so long.  The bloom shall fade from his cheek, the fire be extinguished in his eyes, the strength depart from his limbs.  Sorrow shall be her portion who loves him—­sorrow and shame!”

“Horrible!” exclaimed Richard, endeavouring to exclude the voice of the crone, which pierced his ears like some sharp instrument.

“Ha! ha! you fear me now,” she cried.  “By this, and this, the spell shall work,” she added, describing a circle in the air with her stick, then crossing it twice, and finally scattering over him a handful of grave dust, snatched from an adjoining hillock.

“Now lead me quickly to the smaller cross, Nance,” she added, in a low tone.

Her grand-daughter complied, with a glance of deep commiseration at Richard, who remained stupefied at the ominous proceeding.

“Ah! this must indeed be a witch!” he cried, recovering from the momentary shock.

“So you are convinced at last,” rejoined Nicholas.  “I can take breath now the old hell-cat is gone.  But she shall not escape us.  Keep an eye upon her, while I see if Simon Sparshot, the beadle, be within the churchyard, and if so he shall take her into custody, and lock her in the cage.”

With this, he ran towards the throng, shouting lustily for the beadle.  Presently a big, burly fellow, in a scarlet doublet, laced with gold, a black velvet cap trimmed with red ribands, yellow hose, and shoes with great roses in them, and bearing a long silver-headed staff, answered the summons, and upon being told why his services were required, immediately roared out at the top of a stentorian voice, “A witch, lads!—­a witch!”

All was astir in an instant.  Robin Hood and his merry men, with the morris-dancers, rushed out of their bowers, and the whole churchyard was in agitation.  Above the din was heard the loud voice of Simon Sparshot, still shouting, “A witch!—­witch!—­Mother Chattox!”