Lifting his head to watch what was happening about the litter, he had not heard any one approach him until he found the old hag bending over him. Behind her stood the man who wished to knife him. They had come upon him stealthily, so that Simon should not stay their crime, Herrick supposed, and he gave himself up for lost. Indeed, he saw the knife in the man's hand.
"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."