Mother Goodhugh was the first to break the silence, as, crawling towards the place on hands and knees, she crouched at last at Mace's feet, and lay there, panting. "She has come from the dead to fetch me," moaned the old woman, whose reason seemed to wander. "I know her. See how white, and cold, and strange she is. My child, my child, I killed thee, I killed thee; and now--now--have pity on me! have pity! I be not a witch." She grovelled lower and lower, clasping Mace's bare, white feet, and laid her cheek against them, while, still keeping one hand across her eyes, the poor girl bent down slowly, and touched the crouching wretch. Gil had remained motionless till now; but as he saw the figure move, his faith in its being supernatural was shaken, and with a loud cry he ran forward with outstretched hands. "Mace," he cried, hoarsely, "speak to me, oh, speak!" He had not touched her, for in his surprise it seemed possible, after Mother Goodhugh's words, that the woman he loved had come back from the dead, but still his common sense revolted, while his eyes asserted that it was true. As he spoke Mace rose upright again, but without removing her hand from her eyes, and Gil saw that her long hair was grey as that of some venerable dame; that the slight garment she wore was ragged, and that her fingers were torn and bleeding fast. He could not tell what it meant; how she came to be there; but the idea of the supernatural was cleared away, and, making an effort over his slavish dread, he caught the disengaged hand in his. It was like ice, but his touch broke the spell, for, with a piteous cry, Mace tottered and would have fallen had not Gil caught her in his arms. She was deathly cold, and as he bore her to a spot where the soft turf was dotted with purple heather he saw that her eyelids were tightly closed, and her brow knit as if with pain; and, judging that the glow of sunshine caused her to suffer, he laid a kerchief across her eyes before clasping her icy hands and trickling a few drops of water between her lips. A host of confusing thoughts rushed through his brain, the only substantial one he could grasp being that Mace must have gone to the cavern to seek him, and then have been shut in. But this idea was driven away on the instant by an older recollection, one which made him groan in the anguish of his heart. "My love is dead," he panted. "Did not those hands lay her in her grave? God in heaven have mercy on me! Am I going mad?" "Skipper," whispered a voice at his side, and looking up he saw old Wat standing with dilated eyes, pointing down at the insensible figure. "Skipper," the old fellow whispered hoarsely, "we bean't cowards, but the old woman be a witch after all. Come away, come away!"