Balda the Witch laughed, a very mirthless sound, harsh as the scraping of iron on flint. “Wait, then,” she mumbled, straightening herself on the stool. In the horrid silence Brigid stared towards the motionless figures, breath suspended. Her will beating back the horror that was creeping over her, she assured herself that this was foolishness in the guise of evil; yet the assurance brought her no vast solace. Further she told herself, being sane and healthy of mind, that it was the excitement of the midnight journey, the silence around her, which had wrought her nerves to a pitch of imagination, caused her to fancy darkness other than mere shadow lurking in the corners. Yet, for all that, she found herself whispering, “_Scuto circumdabit te veritas ejus: non timebis a timore nocturno_.” For a space the silence endured, how long she knew not, having ceased to be aware of the passing moments. Then on a sudden came a sibilant murmur, seemingly from so great a distance that it was with fresh horror she realized it issued from one of the motionless figures by the hearth. “That which thou dost desire is above thee. Yet must thou stoop to obtain it. Thus, and thus only canst thou grasp it, to wrest it from the Power where it lies.” The voice stopped. A moment’s silence followed on the words. Then once more came the voice, rising like a cry forced from an unwilling throat. “Yet who, with impunity, shall war with God? I, even I, Balda the Witch, say to thee, Beware.” Once more the silence fell. Brigid clutched the window ledge with shaking hands. “This is all foolishness to the verge of madness,” she whispered. A certain loyalty to Isabel, and, I fancy, terror lest the mere mention of her dread should draw it nearer, constrained her use of a harsher phrase. Balda’s figure relaxed from its rigid pose. Bending once more towards the fire she fell again to mumbling. “Art frighted?” She stretched out one skinny claw, laid it on Isabel’s wrist. “Good; I feel no tremor. Pride and desire should carry thee far along the road I have traversed. The hand is moist and cool. There is no fear here such as kneels quaking at the window.” On the words she turned, pointing a palsied finger. Her red-rimmed eyes, deep in their sockets, looked straight at Brigid. Had Brigid but known how nigh on empty of sight were those bleared terrible eyes, she had ducked below the window on the instant, made for the copse, and so escaped. Knowing it not, and seeing full accusation and discovery in the pointing finger, she knelt on, startled, turned to stone by the swiftness of the happening. A moment at a loss for Balda’s meaning Isabel still gazed at the fire, then realizing, she turned, saw the white wide-eyed face at the window. “Brigid!” she cried, her voice on a harsh note of anger. Isabel went straight to the door. Without she confronted Brigid risen from her knees. The two faced each other in the moonlight. “Spy,” said Isabel; that and no more.