Ralph Darley's disposition led him to determine to say nothing about what had passed, but his lame legs forced him to confess how it was his ankles were so bad, and Sir Morton was furious. He was ready to declare war on a small scale against his neighbour, and carry fire and sword into his camp. But Ralph's legs were better the next day; and when the whole history of the two encounters had been gone over, he thought better of the affair, to the extent of determining to wait till his son was quite well again; and when he was quite well, there were other things to dwell upon. For one, Nick Garth, who had been across to one of the villages beyond the moor, came back with his head bleeding, and stripped to breeches and shirt. His account of his trouble was that he was coming home in the dark, keeping one eye upon a flickering light some distance away up the mountain-side. Sometimes it was visible, at others all was black; and he was wondering whether it had anything to do with the witches' fire of which he had heard tell, when all at once he found himself surrounded by seven or eight wild-looking figures, either in long gowns or cloaks, who seized him; and upon his resisting wildly, they knocked him down, took the best of his clothes away, emptied his pockets, and departed, carrying off a large basket he was taking home, a basket containing two chickens, two ducklings, and a big pat of butter, the present of a married sister beyond the moors. The next day news reached the Black Tor that the witches had been seen again by two different miners, and in each case the tale was the same. The witches were crowding together in a huddled way, in their long cloaks, over a fire. A caldron was hung from three sticks, joined together at the top, and one of the men declared that they must have been busy over some unhallowed work. "Why do you say that, man?" asked Mark. "Because they were chanting some horrible thing together." "You heard that?" "Ay, Master Mark, I heered it." "A song?"