“Will you not tell me where Hertha bides?”

“No, my son—­not yet.  Believe me it is best.”

“Well, then,” I answered, “I shall try to find her; but if I cannot, you mind what I said.”

“I will not forget.  But I will add this—­that there are many fair maidens, and but one Hertha.”

Then he turned away into the dark, and was gone with an uplifting of his hand in parting blessing.  I knew the good man loved me, and now I was sorry that I had spoken harshly to him, yet I had a feeling that I had been treated ill.  Maybe that was foolish, but one acts on foolish thoughts often enough.

There was a man sitting on the settle in the porch of the house as I turned back.  I had not noticed him as we came out.  Now the firelight from the half-open door fell on his face, and I saw that it was one of those two thralls of mine.

“Ho, Brand,” I said, “answer me truly.  Know you where bides Dame Gunnhild the witch?”

“No, lord.  We know not whore she bides but it is not far hence, for we see her at times in the village, though not often.”

“How did she escape when the Danes came?”

“She and the lady Hertha took boat—­it was but three days after you had gone.  All the men had fled as she bade them, but her brother came and helped her with the boat.  They went into the mere, and that was the last we saw of them.”

Now I remembered to have heard of Gunnhild’s brother, but I had never seen him.

“Where does her brother live?” I asked.

“I know not.  I have not seen him again,” answered the man.

“Whence comes Dame Gunnhild into the village?” I went on, thinking that I might learn somewhat in that way.

“Master,” said Brand, “she comes at twilight, nor will she have anyone follow her.  Ill would it fare with the man who did so.  I do not know whence she comes.”

Now it seemed to me that the man had more in his mind than that, and at least that there must be some talk about the place, which is small enough to make the doings of everyone the talk of each one else.

“Where do men say she lives?” I asked therefore.

The man looked doubtfully at me, but he could see that I was not angry.  So he smiled foolishly, and answered: 

“We say nought, lord.  Danes hear everything in some way.”

“Well, you can tell me safely enough.”

“We think it is witchcraft of the old dame’s, and that she and the lady Hertha live with the White Lady in the mere of Wormingford.”

Then I was fain to laugh, for it was witchcraft more than even Gunnhild could compass, by which she might find refuge in the depths of that bottomless mere where the White Lady dwells.  The place has an ill name enough among our folk, and even on a bright summer day, when all the margin of the wide circle of water is starred with the white lilies, I have known silence fall on those laughing ones who plucked the flowers, so still and dark are the waters, and so silent the thick woods that hem the mere round under the shadow of the westward hill that hides the sunset.  No man cares to go near the mere when darkness has fallen, so much do our people fear to see the White Lady of whom Brand spoke.