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Updated: May 12, 2025
"Thanks for your polite way of putting it," said I. "'Witch' is a nicer epithet than 'beast. I wish I almost wish I'd never seen any of you!" "I don't," said he. "And I don't believe Somerled does. To go back to the time when we didn't know that the witch-child existed would be going back from electricity to candles." "You have a pretty way of poking fun at me," I laughed.
Even now, after the lapse of ten years, she could remember the young, lean, square-jawed face with the grey eyes, "like eyes with little fires behind them," and hear again the sudden jerky note in the man's voice as he muttered, "Witch-child!" That brief adventure with "Saint Michel" she remembered calling him "Saint Michel" stood out as one of the clearest memories of her childhood.
"Witch-child!" he muttered as he strode away through the woods. Diane sat in the twilight, brooding. Winter had come round again, gripping the world with icy fingers, and she shivered a little as she crouched in front of the fire. She felt cold cold in body and soul.
So he smiled, and began to think of some manner in which he could bring the bird-boy to a shameful end. At last he hit upon a plan. He would declare that the bird-boy was not a human lad at all, but a witch-child; he would then accuse the good King of having protected a witch-child, and condemn them both to be stoned.
"This, that he shall safely pass the Firth, for the gale falls, and come safely to Fareys, and from Fareys isles to Gudruda's arms." "And what canst thou do, Goblin?" "This: I can lure Eric's ship to wreck, and give his comrades, all save Skallagrim, to Ran's net, and bring him to thy arms, Swanhild, witch-mother's witch-child!" She hearkened. Her breast heaved and her eyes flashed.
None stirred in Atli's hall, but still Swanhild looked out towards the sea. Now she turned and spoke into the darkness, for there was no light in the bower save the light of her great eyes. "Art thou there?" she said. "I have summoned thee thrice in the words thou knowest. Say, Toad, art there?" "Ay, Swanhild the Fatherless! Swanhild, Groa's daughter! Witch-mother's witch-child! I am here.
You know why we can never be together as you planned? Try to feel horror of me. Put me away from you. No evil can come to me unless I seek evil. But It will not suffer you to take me. Live, dear Roger, and let me go." "Yield to me, Man, what you may not keep," the whisper of the Thing followed after her voice. "Would you take the witch-child to your hearth? Cast her off; and taste my pardon."
Afterwards you played the part of a youthful Circe, I remember. You should be more experienced now." She flushed under the cool, satirical tone. It seemed as though he neglected no opportunity of impressing on her the poor estimation in which he held her. Her thoughts flew back to a sunlit glade in a wood and to the grey-eyed, boyish-looking painter who had kissed her and called her "Witch-child!"
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