"What time es et?" asked Betsey. "Elev'n a'clock." "In twenty minuits the moon 'll be vull," muttered the old dame. Betsey made nine circles around the brandis, then she made nine passes over the crock, and all the time she munched and munched with her toothless jaws. Presently she began to repeat words, which to me had no meaning, "A first born son, a first born son, Is this young Jasper Pennington, And he is here on a moonlit night To see the spirits of the light. And I have made my potions fine, And traced my circles nine times nine. So mists depart, Tregeagle come And show the lad his own true home. Spirits black and spirits white, Spirits bad and spirits bright, Come to Betsey's house to-night, And we shall see the things of light." All this time she kept blowing on the liquid in the crock, while Eli set up the most unearthly cries as though he were in pain. A great terror seized me, for to me Betsey's form seemed to dilate. "No, Betsey," I cried, "I'll have nothing to do with this wickedness." "Stop yer noise!" she snarled. "There they come: "'Join all hands Might and main, Weave the sands, Form a chain. Spirits black And spirits white, Let the first-born know the truth to-night.'" Now whether I was carried away by superstitious fear or no I will not say. I simply put down in simple words that which I saw and heard. For a few seconds all was still, and then the room seemed full of strange, wailing sounds, while Betsey continued to blow the liquid in the crock and utter meaningless words. "Look in the crock, Jasper Pennington," she said. [Illustration: "'LOOK IN THE CROCK, JASPER PENNINGTON,' SHE SAID."] I looked on the dark liquid, but I could see nothing. She blew again. "Now look," she repeated. As I looked something dark and formless seemed to rise in the crock, but I saw nothing distinctly. "Git away," she snarled; "I'll look." "A rollin' say, Jasper. Waves like mountains; then a black hole, black as pitch, and great high walls. After that--I'll tell 'ee dreckly. As for the maid, laive me zee. 'Priests all shaved Clothed in black. Convent walls, Screws and rack. Women walkin' in procession, Cravin' for a dead man's blessin'. Weepin' eyes, wailing cries, Lonely, lonely, oal alone, A heart as cold as any stone Cryin' for a hopeless love. Helpless, harmless as a dove, Others spend the damsel's gold, And only half the taale is told.'"