"We've worked a charm," said Mally, the oldest woman in the party. "We stole into Trewinion Church and took some water that the parson had used fur christenin' his oan grancheeld, an' we've made a broth of it. We've boiled a piece of lamb in it, with some sycamore leaves and some hagglet (white thorn) leaves, and we've said nine charms, nine times aich, and it'll ondo any curse." "Where is it?" I said. "Here, a boilin' now," was the reply. I began to feel fearful again. "But Maaster Roger must make a vow afore he drinks," said Mally. "What?" I asked. "You must say this," she said, shaking her skinny finger. "I, Roger Trewinion, promise never to hurt the women here to-night, or their children. I promise it by the sperrits of the place. And I make a vow that I'll allays protect they and their children as fur as I can." There was a cunning look on her face as she spoke. I felt now that these were evil women, and that I would have nothing to do with them. "I refuse to make the promise," I said. "You'm afraid, you'm a coward," cried Deborah. "No, I'm not afraid, I'm not a coward," I said, "and I'll stop these proceedings of yours. You have other reasons than witchcraft for coming here, and I'll know what they are." This roused their passion. "Evil sperrits shall tear 'ee," they said, "and oal your tribe." "You are a set of evil hags," I said, furiously; "and the mysteries of this cavern shall be brought to light." "Stop!" said old Mally Udy, "this broth here was fur yer good. I'll turn it to something bad and make 'ee drink it. The spirit of Betsey Fraddam is here, and she'll make a mixture for 'ee." I had worked myself up into a passion and I kicked the crock and overturned it. Never shall I forget the terrible words they said to me, or the curses they called upon me. They cursed me in body and mind, they cursed me in love and hate, in living and dying. What was it, I wonder? Meaningless jargon, or not? When my story is told you will be able to judge better. I went out of the cave in fear, and when outside I fancied I saw the terrible form of Betsey Fraddam. Then I went back to my home trembling. CHAPTER VIII THE BEGINNING OF THE END O beware of my lord of jealousy; It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock The meat it feeds on: that cuckold lives on bliss Who, certain of his fate, love not its wronger. But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes yet doubts; suspects yet fondly loves. --_Othello._