H. C. Bailey

“ William de Clare was very pale and his breath came fast. Suddenly he clapped his hand to his mouth. "It burns, it burns!" he screamed. "And I, I burn in hell."
The pilgrim started up. "God assoil your sinful soul! What wickedness have you done?"
"It is the woman! She cursed me! She is a witch! Oh, it burns, it burns!" He fell down and rolled in the rushes on the floor, plucking at his lips.
"A witch!" the pilgrim crossed himself. "I am bidden where you dwell with a witch? You have done ill this day. Unclean! Unclean! Alas, poor soul, you burn in your own sin. ”

“ Mary, a holy man are you and most fortunate," said William de Clare, and crossed himself. "Tell me, I pray you, good father, do you bear with you never a relic that will heal a man?"
"From what would you be healed?" said the pilgrim sternly. "There is no healing save in penitence."
"I know it, I know it," the young man cried. "But there is great virtue in holy relics," and he pressed upon the pilgrim and looked covetously at the box about his neck.
"Yea, yea, and great peril for those who seek them with a heart of sin. ”

“ No witch, you. No saint, I. It is but a scrap of a shirt, with something of Spanish flies on it. God have mercy, it would blister a horse. There is no magic but in what men know not, child. I live by that. I have lived on it all my days."
"You know everything, Bran."
"Na, na, only that we are fools all. Peace, child. I need my breath and swift we must be."
He brought her to Siward's house and there the hammers were silent and men at work upon the stream that fed the great pond, Siward's elder son Azor ordering them. "God save you!" ”