Fancy her, sick and weak, tramping
after her man to the battle, and then leaving him dead as she took his
heirs and his shattered pennant back to the ruins of his home. I feel
ashamed of myself for ever daring to think I'm ill-used when I think of
my spaewife grandmother! We're not brave and hard like that now--But I'd
rather like to get her here to settle you and people who talk about
'limiting' women. She wasn't much of a passenger."
"Oh, that witch story comes in lots of mythologies, and old family
histories!" he said, teasingly. "I don't suppose she ever existed at
all, really, or if she did it was because she'd been tarred and
feathered and took refuge at that out of the world show because she was
afraid of being burnt."
"Afraid!" she cried, and began to tingle all over just as she had
tingled when Mactavish played the pipes at her father's funeral. Just
for an instant she wanted to push Louis over the roof, hear him smash
far below on the street for daring to say the spaewife was afraid. Then,
just as swiftly, she remembered that he was weak and must not be annoyed
because he could not stand it. It came to her in a flash how impossible
it was for him, with no pride but self-love, no courage but Dutch
courage, to understand fearlessness and endurance. Her tingling smart of
madness and anger passed, leaving her penitent and pitying.
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