"This one has no hurt," said the old woman, bending over him.
"Not yet, mother. Is he to live to tell of what we do?"
"Give me a moment, my son," she answered, and closed her eyes.
"Quickly, mother, or Simon will save him. He likes not the deed, but he will be glad enough when it is done."
Herrick was conscious that a shout might save him; yet he did not utter it. The face of the hag seemed to fascinate him with its closed eyes, so hollow that they were almost like empty sockets, and its mumbling mouth and pecking nose and chin.
"Quick, mother!" said the man impatiently.
"I cannot see him dead, my son, yet cannot I follow his course. Put up the knife. He must be left to chance."
"Curse the fates that mock you," said the man in a rage.
"Mock me!" screamed the hag, striking him across the face with her bony hand. "Mock me--me! Get you gone, or I'll set the finger of death on you or ever the year is out. Simon, I say, Simon! This sham priest must be left to the will of Fate. I have said it."
Simon, who had mounted Herrick's horse, made a sign and three men carried Herrick to a tree at the edge of the open. To this they bound him in an upright position, winding and knotting the rope tightly from his feet upward--so tightly that he could not move an inch either way. The end of the rope they wound round his throat but loosely.
"Fate must set you free if she will," said the hag.
Simon did not look at him. It seemed to Herrick that he would not willingly have treated him thus, but that fear of the old woman compelled him. He set the man who had wished to use the knife to be one of the litter-bearers, that he might have no chance of returning and doing the captive harm.
"March!" he said, and placing himself at the head of the band he led them through the trees, following no path but in the direction he had pointed, the way where much money lay, and which did not lead to Vayenne.
The hag stood by the brook watching them go, stood there for some time after the last of them had disappeared among the trees; then she entered the forest in the opposite direction, mumbling and gesticulating as she went.
Save for the wind in the trees there was no sound, and even the wind sank presently into silence. Twilight came, then darkness. A numbness crept through Herrick's frame, and there was a strange singing in his head. His throat was parched, for in ministering to his wounded comrade he had forgotten to drink himself. Then came intervals of forgetfulness, then clear consciousness again, and a feeble effort to free himself. In the little patch of night sky overhead shone a star, the North Star surely. That way lay England--home--and in a moment all his life seemed to flash past him. Was it his throat that swelled, or was it that the rope was tightening? Then came oblivion!