“Now, Gloria, we have not ridden more than two miles from the ferry. What would you like to do? Turn back, as the old man advises, and stop at the ferry for the up coach and take our places for the North, and for some other home of yours more convenient and attractive, or go on to this?” earnestly inquired David Lindsay. “Oh, go on to Gryphynshold, by all means. Since I have heard the supernatural tales told by this old man, which well supplement the horrible stories told me by Aunt Agrippina, I am more than ever determined to go on to Gryphynshold. The overseer can certainly give you a bed in his cottage for to-night, while I shall stay at the gate lodge with the housekeeper——” “And as for me,” put in the old negro, “soon’s ebber I gets to dat same gate-house, which won’t be ’fore midnight, I gwine to lop you all right down dere an’ turn right round and dribe my mules straight home ag’in. All de money in dis univarse wouldn’t hire ole Uncle Tubal to take up his lodgings ’long ob de dead people! Leastways, not till I’s dead myself!” “You can do as you please,” said David; “but tell us what gave rise to these ridiculous stories?” “What rised ’em? Why, de ghosts rised ’em! De ghost ob dat ole Satan’s demon son, Dyvyd Grippinwolf, who murdered de booful young ooman as he stole away from her friends an’ fotch to his own Debbil’s den up yonder. His unquiet ghost rages up and down all night, rushin’ t’rough de halls and up de stairs, a slammin’ and a bangin’ ob de doors like a ravin’ mad bull. And no bolts or bars ebber strong enough to keep him out. Dat’s de one what tarrifies people clean out’n deir senses, young marster, I tell yer good.” “Is old Dyvyd Gryphyn’s ghost the only hobgoblin that haunts the hold?” inquired David Lindsay, with a smile. “Lor’, no! Why, dere’s crowds of ’em sometimes. All de wicked, wiolent, furious old Gryphyns as ebber libbed dere—which none ob ’em ebber died in deir beds, yer know—all ob dem died wiolent deaths—holds high jubilee-la! dere ebbery night ’long ob all de debbils out’n de pit! Hush, honey! Dat ole house up dere is de werry mouf ob de black pit ob Satan! An’ ef anybody was to ’xamine, I reckon dey’d find de deep, dry well in de cellar was nuffin less dan a way down into dat same black pit ob Satan; and all debbils do come up an’ down it to hold high jubilee-la! along with all de wicked, furious ole ghosts ob de Gryphyns!” “Has any one ever seen any of these dreadful orgies?” inquired David Lindsay, with an incredulous laugh. “You may laugh, young marster,” said the old negro, in an offended tone; “but ef yer persists in goin’ an’ stayin’ at dat ole debbil’s den, you’ll laugh on t’other side ob your mouf, I tell yer good.” “Has any one seen any of these horrible spectres?” reiterated David Lindsay.