She wore a gown that the Marquis realised proclaimed her to be of a very different class from her persecutors.
There was a muslin fichu, now torn and dirtied by rough hands, which had encircled the whiteness of her neck and there was a large patch of blood, doubtless from the dead c**k, in the centre of her full skirts.
“She was on the druid stones?” the Marquis asked.
“Aye, my Lord, young Rod found ’er when ’e were passin’ on ’is way to work, ’e called the others and they sees ’er were a witch. No one but a witch, my Lord, would lie on them druid stones at night!” The Marquis knew this was true.
There were many superstitions repeated and re-repeated about the huge stones which stood on a bare piece of ground overlooking the river.
He himself had always believed that they were most li
