University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The Spirit's Blasted Tree.

Dauntrees, after his unmannerly escape from the
credulous landlady, hastened with his two companions,
at a swinging gate, along the beach to the fort,
where they found Garret Weasel waiting for them in
a state of eager expectation.

“Is the dame likely to be angry, Captain?” were
the publican's first words.—“Does she suspect us for
a frisk to-night? Adsheartlikens, it is a perilous adventure
for the morrow! You shall bear the burden
of that reckoning, Master Captain.”

“I left Mistress Dorothy groping for a secret
at Hoodman-blind,” replied the Captain, laughing.
“She has found it before now, and by my computation
is in the prettiest hurricane that ever brought a

frown upon a woman's brow. She would bless the
four quarters of thee, Garret, if thou shouldst return
home to-night, with a blessing that would leave a
scorch-mark on thee for the rest of thy days. I
should n't wonder presently to hear her feet pattering
on the gravel of the beach in full pursuit of us—
dark as it is: I have left her in a mood to tempt any
unheard of danger for revenge. So, let us be away
upon our errand. You have the eatables safe and
the wine sound, worthy Weasel?—Nicholas,” he
said, speaking to the Lieutenant—“are our horses
saddled?”

“They are at the post on the other side of the
parade,” replied the Lieutenant.

“Alack!” exclaimed Weasel—“Alack for these
pranks! Here will be a week's repentance. But a
fig for conclusions!—in for a penny, in for a pound,
masters. I have the basket well stored and in good
keeping. It will be discreet to mount quickly—I
will not answer against the dame's rapping at the
gate to-night: she is a woman of spirit and valiant
in her anger.”

“Then let us be up and away,” said the Captain,
who was busily bestowing a pair of pistols in his
belt and suspending his sword across his body.

“A cutlass and pistols for me,” said the publican,
as he selected his weapons from several at hand.

Arnold and Pamesack were each provided with a
carbine, when Dauntrees, throwing his cloak across
his shoulders, led the way to the horses, where the

party having mounted, sallied through the gate of
the fort at a gallop.

Their road lay around the head of St. Inigoe's
creek, and soon became entangled in dark, woody
ravines and steep acclivities which presented, at this
hour, no small interruption to their progress. Pamesack,
on a slouching pony, his legs dangling within
a foot of the ground, led the way with an almost instinctive
knowledge of his intricate path, which
might have defied a darker night. The stars shining
through a crisp and cloudless atmosphere, enabled
the party to discern the profile of the tree tops,
and disclosed to them, at intervals, the track of this
solitary road with sufficient distinctness to prevent
their entirely losing it.

They had journeyed for more than two hours in
the depths of the forest before they approached the
inlet of St. Jerome's. Dauntrees had beguiled the
time by tales of former adventures, and now and
then by sallies of humour provoked by the dubious
valour of the innkeeper,—for Weasel, although addicted
to the vanity of exhibiting himself in the light
of a swashing, cut-and-thrust comrade in an emprise
of peril, was nevertheless unable, this night, to suppress
the involuntary confession of a lurking faintheartedness
at the result of the present venture.
This inward misgiving showed itself in his increased
garrulity and in the exaggerated tone of his vauntings
of what he had done in sundry emergencies of
hazard, as well as of what he had made up his mind
to do on the present occasion if they should be so

fortunate as to encounter any peculiarly severe stress
of fortune. Upon such topics the party grew jovial
and Dauntrees laughed at the top of his voice.

“The vintner's old roystering courses would make
us lose our road in downright blindness from laughing,”
he said, as checking himself in one of these
out-breaks, he reined up his horse. “Where are we,
Pamesack? I surely hear the stroke of the tide
upon the beach;—are we so near St. Jerome's, or
have we missed the track and struck the bay shore
short of our aim?”

“The she-fox does not run to her den where she
has left her young, by a track more sure than mine
to-night,” replied the guide:—“it is the wave striking
upon the sand at the head of the inlet: you may
see the stars on the water through yonder wood.”

“Pamesack says true,” added Arnold. “He has
found his way better than a hound.”

A piece of cleared land, or old field, a few acres
in width, lay between the travellers and the water
which began now to glimmer on their sight through
a fringe of wood that grew upon the margin of
the creek or inlet, and the fresh breeze showed that
the broad expanse of the Chesapeake was at no great
distance.

“The Wizard's Chapel,” said Dauntrees, “by my
reckoning then, should be within a mile of this spot.
It were a good point of soldiership to push forward
a vanguard. That duty, Garret, will best comport
with your mad-cap humour—there may be pith in it:
so, onward, man, until you are challenged by some

out-post of the Foul One—we will tarry here for
your report. In the mean time, leave us your hamper
of provender. Come, man of cold iron, be
alert—thy stomach is growing restive for a deed of
valour.”

“You are a man trained to pike and musquetoon,”
replied the publican; “and have the skill to set a
company, as men commonly fight with men. But I
humbly opine, Captain, that our venture to-night
stands in no need of vanguard, patrol or picquet.
We have unearthly things to wrestle with, and do
not strive according to the usages of the wars. I
would not be slow to do your bidding, but that I
know good may not come of it: in my poor judgment
we should creep towards the Chapel together,
not parting company. I will stand by thee, Captain,
with a sharp eye and ready hand.”

“Thy teeth will betray us, Master Vintner, even
at a score rods from the enemy,” said Dauntrees:
“they chatter so rudely that thy nether jaw is in
danger. If thou art cold, man, button up thy coat.”

“Of a verity it is a cold night, and my coat is
none of the thickest,” replied Weasel with an increasing
shudder.

“I understand you, Garret,” responded the Captain
with a laugh; “we must drink. So, friends, to
the green grass, and fasten your horses to the trees
whilst we warm up the liver of our forlorn vintner
with a cup. We can all take that physic.”

This command was obeyed by the immediate dis

mounting of the party and their attack upon one of
the flasks in the basket.

"It has a rare smack for a frosty night," said
Dauntrees as he quaffed a third and fourth cup.
"When I was in Tours I visited the abbey of Marmoustier,
and there drank a veritable potation from
the huge tun which the blessed St. Martin himself
filled, by squeezing a single cluster of grapes. It
has the repute of being the kindliest wine in all
Christendom for the invigorating of those who are
called to do battle with the devil. The monks of the
abbey have ever found it a most deadly weapon
against Satan. And truly, Master Weasel, if I did
not know that this wine was of the breed of the
islands, I should take it to be a dripping from the
holy tun I spoke of:—it hath the like virtue of defiance
of Beelzebub. So, drink-drink again, worthy
purveyor and valiant adjutant!"

"What is that?" exclaimed Weasel, taking the
cup from his lips before he had finished the contents.
"There is something far off like the howl of a dog
and yet more devilish I should say—did ye not hear
it, masters? I pray heaven there be no evil warning
in this:—I am cold—still cold, Captain Dauntrees."

"Tush, it is the ringing of your own ears, Garret,
or it may be, like enough, some devil's cur that
scents our footsteps. Make yourself a fire, and
whilst you grow warm by that grosser element we
will take a range, for a brief space, round the Chapel.
You shall guard the forage till we return."

"That is well thought of," replied the innkeeper

quickly. “Light and heat will both be useful in our
onslaught:—while you three advance towards the
shore I will keep a look out here; for there is no
knowing what devices the enemy may have a-foot to
take us by surprise.”

Some little time was spent in kindling a fire, which
had no sooner begun to blaze than Dauntrees, with
the Ranger and the Indian, set forth on their reconnoissance
of the Chapel, leaving Weasel assured that
he was rendering important service in guarding the
provender and comforting himself by the blazing
fagots.

They walked briskly across the open ground towards
the water, and as they now approached the
spot which common rumour had invested with so
many terrors, even these bold adventurers themselves
were not without some misgivings. The universal
belief in supernatural agencies in the concerns
of mankind, which distinguished the era of this narrative,
was sufficient to infuse a certain share of
apprehension into the minds of the stoutest men, and
it was hardly reckoned to derogate from the courage
of a tried soldier that he should quail in spirit before
the dreadful presence of the Powers of Darkness.
Dauntrees had an undoubting faith in the malignant
influences which were said to hover about the
Wizard's Chapel, and nothing but the pride and subordination
of his profession could have impelled
him to visit this spot at an hour when its mysterious
and mischievous inhabitants were supposed to be
endued with their fullest power to harm. The Ranger

was not less keenly impressed with the same
feelings, whilst Pamesack, credulous and superstitious
as all of his tribe, was, like them, endowed
with that deeply-imprinted fatalism, which taught
him to suppress his emotions, and which rendered
him seemingly indifferent to whatever issue awaited
his enterprise.

“By my troth, Arnold,” said Dauntrees, as they
strode forward, “although we jest at yonder white-livered
vintner, this matter we have in hand might
excuse an ague in a stouter man. I care not to confess
that the love I bear his Lordship, together with
some punctilio of duty, is the only argument that
might bring me here to night. I would rather stand
a score pikes in an onset with my single hand, where
the business is with flesh and blood, than buffet with
a single imp of the Wizard. I have heard of over-bold
men being smote by the evil eye of a beldam
hag; and I once knew a man of unquenchable gaiety
suddenly made mute and melancholy by the weight
of a blow dealt by a hand which was not to be seen:
the remainder of his life was spent in sorrowful penance.
They say these spirits are quick to punish
rashness.”

“As Lord Charles commands we must do his
bidding,” replied the forester. “When the business
in hand must be done, I never stop to think of the
danger of it. If we should not get back, Lord
Charles has as good men to fill our places. I
have been scared more than once by these night
devils, till my hair lifted my cap with the fright, but

I never lost my wits so far as not to strike or to run
at the good season.”

“Laet lopen die lopen luste, as we used to say in
Holland,” returned the Captain. “I am an old rover
and have had my share of goblins, and never flinched
to sulphur or brimstone, whether projected by the
breath of a devil or a culverin. I am not to be
scared now from my duty by any of Paul Kelpy's
brood, though I say again I like not this strife with
shadows. His Lordship shall not say we failed in
our outlook. I did purpose, before we set out, to
talk with Father Pierre concerning this matter, but
Garret's wine and his wife together put it out of my
head.”

“The holy father would only have told you,” replied
Arnold, “to keep a Latin prayer in your head
and Master Weasel's wine and wife both out of it.”

“So he would, Arnold, and it would have gone
more against the grain than a hair-shirt penance. I
have scarce a tag of a prayer in my memory, not
even a line of the Fac Salve; and I have moreover a
most special need for a flask of that vintage of Teneriffe
on a chilly night;—and then, as you yourself
was a witness, I had most pressing occasion to practise
a deceit upon Mistress Dorothy. The Priest's
counsel would have been wasted words—that's true:
so we were fain to do our errand to-night without
the aid of the church.—Why do you halt, Pamesack?”

“I hear the tread of a foot,” replied the Indian.

“A deer stalking on the shore of the creek,” said
Dauntrees.

“More like the foot of a man,” returned Pamesack,
in a lowered voice; “we should talk less to
make our way safe.—There is the growl of a dog.”

Arnold now called the attention of his companions
to the outlines of a low hut which was barely discernible
through the wood where an open space
brought the angle of the roof into relief against the
water of the creek, and as they approached near
enough to examine the little structure more minutely,
they were saluted by the surly bark of a deep throated
dog, fiercely redoubled. At the same time the
sound of receding footsteps was distinctly audible.

“Who dwells here?” inquired Dauntrees, striking
the door with the hilt of his sword.

There was no answer, and the door gave way to
the thrust and flew wide open. The apartment was
tenantless. A few coals of fire gleaming from the
embers, and a low bench furnished with a blanket,
rendered it obvious that this solitary abode had been
but recently deserted by its possessor. A hasty survey
of the hut, which was at first fiercely disputed by the
dog—a cross-grained and sturdy mastiff—until a
sharp blow from a staff which the forester bestowed
sent him growling from the premises, satisfied the explorers
that so far, at least, they had encountered nothing
supernatural; and without further delay or comment
upon this incident they took their course along
the margin of St. Jerome's Creek. After a short interval,

the beating of the waves upon the beach informed
them that they had reached the neighbourhood
of the shore of the Chesapeake. Here a halt
and an attentive examination of the locality made
them aware that they stoodu pon a bank, which descended
somewhat abruptly to the level of the beach
that lay some fifty yards or more beyond them. In
the dim starlight they were able to trace the profile
of a low but capacious tenement which stood almost
on the tide mark.

“It is the Chapel!” said Dauntrees, in an involuntary
whisper as he touched the Ranger's arm.

“It is Paul Kelpy's house, all the same as I have
known it these twenty years:—a silent and wicked
house,” whispered Arnold, in reply.

“And a pretty spot for the Devil to lurk in,”
said Dauntrees, resuming his ordinary tone.

“Hold, Captain,” interrupted the Ranger, “no
foul words so near the Haunted House. The good
saints be above us!” he added, crossing himself and
muttering a short prayer.

“Follow me down the bank,” said Dauntrees, in
a low but resolute voice; “but first look to your carbines
that they be charged and primed. I will break
in the door of this ungodly den and ransack its corners
before I leave it. Holy St. Michael, the Archfiend
is in the Chapel, and warns us away!” he exclaimed,
as suddenly a flash of crimson light illuminated
every window of the building. “It is the same
warning given to Burton and myself once before.

Stand your ground, comrades; we shall be beset by
these ministers of sin!”

As the flashes of this lurid light were thrice repeated,
Pamesack was seen on the edge of the bank
fixed like a statue, with foot and arm extended, looking
with a stern gaze towards this appalling spectacle.
Arnold recoiled a pace and brought his hand across
his eyes, and was revealed in this posture as he exclaimed
in his marked Dutch accent, “The fisherman's
blood is turned to fire: we had best go no further,
masters.” Dauntrees had advanced half-way
down the bank, and the glare disclosed him as suddenly
arrested in his career; his sword gleamed above
his head whilst his short cloak was drawn by the motion
of his left arm under his chin; and his broad
beaver, pistolled belt, and wide boots, now tinged
with the preternatural light, gave to his figure that
rich effect which painters are pleased to copy.

“I saw Satan's imps within the chamber,” exclaimed
the Captain. “As I would the blessed Martyrs
be with us, I saw the very servitors of the Fiend!
They are many and mischievous, and shall be defied
though we battle with the Prince of the Air. What
ho, bastards of Beelzebub, I defy thee! in the name
of our patron, the holy and blessed St. Ignatius, I
defy thee!”

There was a deeper darkness as Dauntrees rushed
almost to the door of the house with his sword in his
hand. Again the same deep flashes of fire illumed the
windows, and two or three figures in grotesque costume,

with strange unearthly faces, were seen, for the
instant, within. Dauntrees retreated a few steps nearer
to his companions, and drawing a pistol, held it ready
for instant use. It was discharged at the windows
with the next flash of the light, and the report was
followed by a hoarse and yelling laugh from the
tenants of the house.

“Once more I defy thee!” shouted the Captain,
with a loud voice; “and in the name of our holy
church, and by the order of the Lord Proprietary, I
demand what do you here with these hellish rites?”

The answer was returned in a still louder laugh,
and in a shot fired at the challenger, the momentary
light of the explosion revealing, as Dauntrees imagined,
a cloaked figure presenting a harquebuss
through the window.

“Protect yourselves, friends!” he exclaimed, “with
such shelter as you may find,” at the same time retreating
to the cover of an oak which stood upon the
bank. “These demons show weapons like our own.
I will e'en ply the trade with thee, accursed spirits!”
he added, as he discharged a second pistol.

The Ranger and Pamesack had already taken
shelter, and their carbines were also levelled and
fired. Some two or three shots were returned from
the house accompanied with the same rude laugh
which attended the first onset, and the scene, for a
moment, would have been thought rather to resemble
the assault and defence of mortal foes, than the
strife of men with intangible goblins, but that there
were mixed with it other accompaniments altogether

unlike the circumstance of mortal battle; a loud
heavy sound as of rolling thunder, echoed from the
interior of the chapel, and in the glimpses of light
the antic figures within were discerned as dancing
with strange and preposterous motions.

“It avails us not to contend against these fiends,”
said Dauntrees. “They are enough to maintain their
post against us, even if they fought with human implements.
Our task is accomplished by gaining sight
of the chapel and its inmates. We may certify what
we have seen to his Lordship; so, masters, move
warily and quickly rearward. Ay, laugh again, you
juggling minions of the devil!” he said, as a hoarse
shout of exultation resounded from the house, when
the assailants commenced their retreat. “Put on
the shape of men and we may deal with you! Forward,
Arnold; if we tarry, our retreat may be vexed
with dangers against which we are not provided.”

“I hope this is the last time we shall visit this
devil's den,” said Arnold, as he obeyed the Captain's
injunction, and moved, as rapidly as his long stride
would enable him to walk, from the scene of their
late assault.

Whilst these events were passing, I turn back to
the publican, who was left a full mile in the rear to
guard the baggage and keep up the fire,—a post, as he
described it, of no small danger.

It was with a mistrusting conscience, as to the propriety
of his separation from his companions, that
Garret, when he had leisure for reflection, set himself
to scanning his deportment at this juncture. His

chief scruple had reference to the point of view in
which Dauntrees and Arnold de la Grange would
hereafter represent this incident: would they set it
down, as Weasel hoped they might, to the account of
a proper and soldier-like disposition of the forces,
which required a detachment to defend a weak point?
or would they not attribute his hanging back to a
want of courage, which his conscience whispered
was not altogether so wide of the truth, but which
he had hoped to conceal by his martial tone of
bravado? There are many brave men, he reflected,
who have a constitutional objection to fighting in the
dark, and he was rather inclined to rank himself in
that class. “In the dark,” said he, as he sat down
by the fire, with his hands locked across his knees,
which were drawn up before him in grasshopper
angles, and looked steadily at the blazing brushwood;
“in the dark a man cannot see—that stands to reason.
And it makes a great difference, let me tell you, masters,
when you can't see your enemy. A brave man,
by nature, requires light. And, besides, what sort of
an enemy do we fight? Hobgoblins—not mortal men
—for I would stand up to any mortal man in Christendom;
ay, and with odds against me. I have done
it before now. But these whirring and whizzing
ghosts and their cronies, that fly about one's ears like
cats, and purr and mew like bats—what am I saying?
no, fly like bats and mew like cats—one may
cut and carve at them with his blade with no more
wound than a boy's wooden truncheon makes
upon a south wind. Besides, the Captain, who is all
in all in his command, hath set me here to watch,
which, as it were, was a forbidding of me to go onward.
He must be obeyed: a good soldier disputes
no order, although it go against his stomach. It was
the Captain's wish that I should keep strict watch and
ward here on the skirt of the wood; otherwise, I
should have followed him—and with stout heart and
step, I warrant you! But the Captain hath a soldierly
sagacity in his cautions; holding this spot, as he
wisely hath done, to be an open point of danger, an
inlet, as it were, to circumvent his march, and therefore
straightly to be looked to. Well, let the world
wag, and the upshot be what it may, here are comforts
at hand, and I will not stint to use them.”

Saying this the self-satisfied martialist opened the
basket and solaced his appetite with a slice of pasty
and a draught of wine.

“I will now perform a turn of duty,” he continued,
after his refreshment; and accordingly drawing his
hanger, he set forth to make a short circuit into the
open field. He proceeded with becoming caution
on this perilous venture, looking slyly at every weed
or bush which lay in his route, shuddering with a
chilly fear at the sound of his own footsteps, and especially
scanning, with a disturbed glance, the vibrations
of his long and lean shadow which was sharply
cast by the fire across the level ground. He had
wandered some fifty paces into the field, on this
valorous outlook, when he bethought him that he had
ventured far enough, and might now return, deeming
it more safe to be near the fire and the horses than

out upon a lonesome plain, which he believed to be
infested by witches and their kindred broods. He
had scarcely set his face towards his original post
when an apparition came upon his sight that filled
him with horror, and caused his hair to rise like
bristles. This was the real bodily form and proportions
of such a spectre as might be supposed to prefer
such a spot—an old woman in a loose and ragged
robe, who was seen gliding up to the burning fagots
with a billet of pine in her hand, which she lighted at
the fire and then waved above her head as she advanced
into the field towards the innkeeper. Weasel's
tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his
teeth chattered audibly against each other, his knees
smote together, and his eyes glanced steadfastly upon
the phantom. For a moment he lost the power of
utterance or motion, and when these began to return,
as the hag drew nearer, his impulse was to fly; but
his bewildered reflection came to his aid and suggested
greater perils in advance: he therefore stood
stock-still.

“Heaven have mercy upon me!—the Lord have
mercy upon me, a sinner!” he ejaculated; “I am
alone, and the enemy has come upon me.”

“Watcher of the night,” said a voice, in a shrill
note, “draw nigh. What do you seek on the wold?”

“Tetra grammaton, Ahaseel—in the name of the
Holy Evangels, spare me!” muttered the innkeeper,
fruitlessly ransacking his memory for some charm
against witches, and stammering out an incoherent
jargon. “Abracadabra—spare me, excellent and

worthy dame! I seek no hurt to thee. I am old,
mother, too old and with too many sins of my own
to account for, to wish harm to any one, much less to
the good woman of this wold. Oh Lord, oh Lord!
why was I seduced upon this fool's errand?”

“Come nigh, old man, when I speak to you. Why
do you loiter there?” shouted the witch, as she stood
erect some twenty paces in front of the publican and
beckoned him with her blazing fagot. “What dost
thou mutter?”

“I but sported with my shadow, mother,” replied
Weasel, with a tremulous attempt at a laugh, as he
approached the questioner, in an ill assumed effort
at composure and cheerfulness. “I was fain to
divert myself with an antic, till some friends of
mine, who left me but a moment since, returned.
How goes the night with you dame?”

“Merrily,” replied the hag, as she set up a shrill
laugh which more resembled a scream, “merrily; I
cannot but laugh to find the henpecked vintner of St.
Mary's at this time of night within the sound of the
tide at the Black Chapel. I know your errand, old
chapman of cheap liquors, and why you have brought
your cronies. You pretend to be a liegeman of his
Lordship, and you travel all night to cheat him of
five shillings. You will lie on the morrow with as
sad a face as there is in the hundred. I know you.”

“You know all things, worthy dame, and I were
a fool to keep a secret from you. What new commodity,
honest mistress, shall I find with Rob? The
port is alive with a rumour of the Olive Branch; I

would be early with the Cripple. Ha, ha!” he added,
with a fearful laugh, “thou seest I am stirring in my
trade.”

“Garret Weasel,” said the beldam, “you may
take it for a favour, past your deservings, that Rob
will see thee alone at his hut even in day time: but
it is as much as your life is worth to bring your huff-cap
brawlers to St. Jerome's at midnight. It is not
lawful ground for thee, much less for the hot-brained
fools who bear you company. Who showed them
the path to my cabin, that I must be driven out at
this hour?”

“Worthy mistress, indeed I know not. I am ignorant
of what you say!”

“They will call themselves friends to the Chapel:
but we have no friends to the Chapel amongst living
men. The Chapel belongs to the dead and the tormentors
of the dead. So follow your cronies and
command them back. I warn you to follow, and
bring them back, as you would save them from harm.
Ha! look you, it is come already!” she exclaimed,
raising her torch in the air, as the flashes from the
Haunted House illumined the horizon; “the seekers
have roused our sentries, and there shall be angry
buffets to the back of it!” At this moment the first
shot was heard. “Friends, forsooth!” she shouted
at the top of her voice: “friends, are ye? there is
the token that ye are known to be false liars. Wo
to the fool that plants his foot before the Chapel!
Stand there, Garret Weasel: I must away; follow me
but a step—raise thy head to look after my path, and

I will strike thee blind and turn thee into a drivelling
idiot for the rest of thy days. Remember—”

In uttering this threat the figure disappeared; Garret
knew not how, as he strictly obeyed the parting
injunction, and his horrors were greatly increased by
the report of the several shots which now reached
his ear from the direction of the Black House.

He had hardly recovered himself sufficiently to
wander back to the fire, before Dauntrees, Arnold,
and Pamesack arrived, evidently flurried by the
scene through which they had passed, as well as by
the rapidity of their retreat.

“Some wine, Garret! some wine, old master of the
tap!” was Dauntrees' salutation; “and whilst we
regale as briefly as we may, have thou our horses
loose from the trees; we must mount and away. To
the horses, Garret! We will help ourselves.”

“I pray you, Master Captain,” inquired the publican,
having now regained his self-possession, “what
speed at the Chapel? Oh, an we have all had a night
of it! Sharp encounters all round, masters! I can
tell you a tale, I warrant you.”

“Stop not to prate now,” interrupted Dauntrees,
in a voice choked by the huge mouthful of the pasty
he was devouring; “we shall discourse as we ride.
That flask, Arnold, I must have another draught e'er
we mount, and then, friends, to horse as quickly as
you may; we may be followed; we may have ghost,
devil, and man of flesh, all three, at our heels.”

“I have had store of them, I can tell you—ghosts

and devils without number,” said Weasel, as he
brought the horses forward.

“You shall be tried by an inquest of both, for your
life, if you tarry another instant,” interposed the Captain,
as he sprang into his saddle.

“What! are we set upon, comrades?” cried out the
vintner, manfully, as he rose to his horse's back, and
pricked forward until he got between Pamesack and
Arnold. “Are we set upon? Let us halt and give
them an accolado; we are enough for them, I warrant
you! Oh, but it had well nigh been a bloody
night,” he continued, as the whole party trotted
briskly from the ground. “We had work to do,
masters, and may tell of it to-morrow. Good Pamesack,
take this basket from me, it impedes my motion
in these bushes. Master Arnold, as we must ride here
in single files, let me get before thee: I would speak
with the Captain. Who should I see, Captain Dauntrees,”
continued the publican, after these arrangements
were made, and he had thrust himself into the
middle of the line of march, and all now proceeded at
a slackened pace, “but that most notorious and
abominable hag, the woman of Warrington—Kate,
who lives, as every body knows, on the Cliffs. She
must needs come trundling down before me, astride
a broomstick, with a black cat upon her shoulder, and
sail up to the fire which I had left, for a space, to make
a round on my watch—for you may be sworn a strict
watch I made of it, going even out of my way to explore
the more hidden and perilous lurking-places
where one might suspect an enemy to lie. So, whilst

I was gone on this quest, she whips in and seats herself
by the fire, with a whole score of devils at their
antics around her. Then up I come, naturally surprised
at this audacity, and question them, partly in
soldier-wise, showing my sword ready to make good
my speech, and partly by adjuration, which soon puts
me the whole bevy to flight, leaving Kate of Warrington
at mercy: and there I constrained her to divulge
the secrets of the Chapel. She said there had been
devilish work under that roof, and would be again;
when pop, and bang, and slash, and crash, I heard
the outbreak, and saw the devil's lights that were
flashed. I could hold no longer parley with the hag,
but was just moving off at full speed to your relief,
determined in this need to desert my post—which, in
my impatience to lend you a hand, I could not help—
when I heard your footfall coming back, and so I
was fain to bide your coming.”

“A well conceived sally of soldiership,” said Dauntrees,
“and spoken with a cavalier spirit, Master
Garret. It hath truth upon the face of it: I believe
every word. It shall serve you a good turn with
his Lordship. What does Kate of Warrington in this
neighbourhood? She travels far on her broomstick
—unless, indeed, what seems likely, she has taken her
quarters in the cabin we disturbed to-night. These
crows will be near their carrion.”

By degrees the party, as they pursued their homeward
journey, grew drowsy. The publican had lost
all his garrulity, and nodded upon his horse. Arnold

and Pamesack rode in silence, until Dauntrees, as if
waking up from a reverie, said—

“Well, friends, we return from no barren mission
to-night. His Lordship may have some satisfaction
in our story; particularly in the vintner's. We shall
be ready to report to his Lordship by noon, and after
that we shall hasten to quiet our Dame Dorothy.
The night is far spent: I should take it, Arnold, to
be past three o'clock, by the rising of the moon. At
peep of day we shall be snug upon our pallets, with
no loss of relish for a sleep which will have been
well earned.”

As the Captain continued to urge his journey,
which he did with the glee that waits upon a safe
deliverance from an exploit of hazard, he turned his
face upwards to the bright orb which threw a cheerful
light over the scenery of the road-side, and in the
distance flung a reflection, as of burnished silver, over
the broad surface of St. Mary's river, as seen from
the height which the travellers were now descending.
Not more than two miles of their route remained
to be achieved, when the Captain broke forth with an
old song of that day, in a voice which would not have
discredited a professor:

“Why, Garret, vintner, art asleep, man?” inquired

the Captain. “Why dost thou not join in the burden?”

“To your hand, Captain,” exclaimed Weasel, rousing
himself and piping forth the chorus—

which he did not fail to repeat at the top of his voice
at each return.

Dauntrees proceeded:

This ditty was scarcely concluded—for it was
spun out with several noisy repetitions of the chorus
—before the troop reined up at the gate of the Fort.

The drowsy sentinel undid the bolt at the Captain's
summons, and, in a very short space, the wearied
adventurers were stretched in the enjoyment of that
most satisfactory of physical comforts, the deep sleep
of tired men.