Meanwhile let us leave the dead, and follow the living. The reader is not asked to dry his tears after the mournful spectacle, and put off his sackcloth, and don singing robes and smiles, for soon the curtain may be raised from the same scene, to exhibit on the same stage, another victim. William Morden, when out of the sight of his wife, came in view of the object of his pursuit. Unlike the aged, the hag avoided not the many elevations of sharp rock, on her path. After passing them, for a moment she would linger, and looking back, and howling, motion him, with a wild plunge of her arm, to follow. The scenery became more bleak and desolate, as if nothing in animal or vegetable life could flourish near her abode. Not a sound was heard; her steps were hurried, but silent. They were approaching the cave, which was formed in the old channel of the brook, and which was supposed to be the outlet of a subterraneous passage leading from the abbey into a deep wood, which skirted and concealed the bank. Amidst the trees strange lights seemed to move, and the witch, by their flash, was enabled to expose her malignant and hellish countenance to the gaze of Morden. She stood still and he advanced. From the folds of the cloak in which she was wrapped, she drew her hand, and pointed to a deep ravine, at a short distance from the cave. She muttered some incantations, raised her eyes, as if to invisible agents in the air, and exclaimed, “Slaves! ye know my power! Shew him--shew him what a word, escaping from my lips, has done. Now, fool!” and she grasped his hands for a moment, “gaze there--and tremble.”