‘Seven smiths sat working, Working spears of hate; Seven men came riding, Riding, riding late. Seven smiths sat working, Working spears of woe; Seven men came riding, Riding never mo. So in and about, When the moon’s put out, Under rain, under snow Must my little boy go.’ Kneeling, she carefully put the Holy Wafer in the bottom of the chest, and taking the bucket in her hand, emptied therefrom a full hideous toad with warty body and yellow eyes, black and terrible to gaze upon. O shame, O horror, O deadly sin! The poisonous beast fell with a dull thud beside the Most Holy Body of Our Lord. The daughter of Hell slammed to the heavy lid and locked the chest. She ran and hid the key in the bucket behind the house. III It was after midnight, and the night fell as calm as on the Sea of Galilee after Our Lord had rebuked the waves and bid the waters whist. Four Lane Ends was as quiet as a grave: the countless leaves of the wood rustled not; there was no cry of any night bird or any beast, nor any sound of flowing waters. A full moon was in the heavens and rained down silver on charmed silence. But in Gilbert’s bedchamber was a thick darkness as of pitch, only pierced by a single moonbeam that smote like a bright sword across the room from the little window. Gilbert was awake and sat up in bed; beside him his wife slept, or seemed to sleep, with her head hidden under the coverlet. Gilbert could scarcely draw breath, a fearful pressure was upon his ribs, the air tasted like a thick and poisonous syrup; it was as though the walls and the roof were closing in upon him, as though he were entombed in the deepest abysm of earth with immeasurable silences and darknesses above and around him. Entombed, yea, but not alone, for potent and terrible moved a disturbing presence, a vast agony, a gigantic and all-pervading effort. It was as though some mighty spirit strove ceaselessly with terrible and ever increasing strength to burst the narrow confines of the chamber. Gilbert tried with staring eyes to pierce the dark, but in vain; he crossed himself and said _Pater Noster_. Almost instantly out of the blackness came a little piping cry, as though of a new-born babe. He listened intently. ‘Nay,’ thought he, ‘I must be deceived; the Lord hath never blessed this house with bairns, and there are no children nearer than the Cross.’ But anon the cry came again, a little louder than before. ‘Holy Virgin,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘this is a spirit.’ He shook Meg by the shoulder until she could not be anything else but awake. ‘What ails thee, man?’ she asked in a low strained voice. ‘Hearest thou naught?’ ‘Nay.’ ‘Listen.’ Anon it came again, the wail of a babe. ‘Holy Saints defend us,’ cried Gilbert, ‘what makest thou of that?’ Meg seemed to swallow something in her throat, and then she spoke in a harsh and toneless voice. ‘’Twas the cry of an owl.’ ‘Nay.’ ‘’Twas the shriek of a bat.’