Rebecca Lisle

On the slope of the green, to the right of Reuben, twenty or thirty villagers had gathered. Robert, the big blonde man from the chapel, stood with his ham-sized hand on Gabriel’s shoulder.

‘I’ve sent Hector to fetch Mister Wight!’ he shouted. ‘We need Mister Wight to see this.’

‘What’s wrong with the lad?’ A woman asked. ‘Why’ve you brought him here?’

Reuben peeped round to see who was talking. It was an ordinary sort of housewife with red cheeks and kind eyes. A mother? She would not hurt the boy, would she?

‘He was trying to steal from the chapel,’ said Robert. ‘We stopped him right enough. But it’s not that, Mistress Cowley… Look up, boy!’

Gabriel shook his head and folded his arms over his face.

‘You wait. You’ll see — his face is out of kilter,’ Robert went on. ‘And his hands. It’s not Godly. He’s come straight from hell, this one. He’s not right, not no ways.’ Robert pulled the boy’s arms down. ‘Come on, boy, show them your features there. Show them!’ He threw off the hat and tugged off the black satin. ‘There now! See!’