The old hag was lying in much the same spot that Herrick himself had occupied. A fire was upon the hearth, and the smell of the peat was pungent. The old woman's face looked like a skull over which yellow skin had been lightly drawn. The closed eyes, sunken, and like empty sockets, increased the likeness. The noise of Herrick's entrance disturbed her, and she looked up at him as he stood over her.
"You know me," he said sternly.
"You're a liar, curse you." And although the words were feebly spoken there was venom in them.
"A wounded man
In a forest lay,
Who the fates decree
Shall be Duke one day."
recited Herrick.
The sound of the doggerel brought a look of interest into the old hag's face.
"Now do you know me?" asked Herrick. "You were wrong. I was not the wounded man. I am the one you had bound to a tree, to be left to the will of fate. Fate has been kind. I am the Duke."
The hag tried to raise a skinny arm, as though to protect herself from his vengeance.
"Tell me, where was the wounded man taken? Where is he now?"
"Shall be Duke one day," mumbled the old woman.