“There is no such door, save in the old oubliettes below the towers; I wish we had Cuthbert in _one_, and his reverend father in another.” “No there _is_ none; the fact startled me, and a strange thrill, which I cannot account for, went through me as I heard it.” Sir John paused, and a visible tremor passed over him, which was strange in a man of his iron constitution. “But I have not sent for you to talk about this; hast thou gleaned any tidings of Cuthbert at Glastonbury?” “Yes; that a stranger called upon those old dolts, the foster father and mother of my friend Cuthbert; he came from the west, for his horse cast a shoe, and the smith remarked that the beast had been shod in Devon, from the make of his shoes. This happened in the hearing of a cunning fellow, Luke Sharp, who is in our pay, and he managed to entice the fellow to an ale house, and tried to make him drunk. Well, the messenger was, after all, a little too cute for that; but Luke told me that both from what the fellow did say, and from what he did not say, he was sure that he came from our old acquaintances; and I fancy they may both be expected to pay a visit to Glastonbury on particular business ere long.” “Thou hatest this Cuthbert?” “Ever since I have known him.” “Because he once gave you a thrashing, hey, Nick?” “No; I am not ashamed of that, for I fought as long as I could stand or see; but I only wish this, that I could try chances again with him; with the sword, not the fist. I would sooner have him face to face with me, on the sward, with nothing but our shirts between sword point and breast, than see him on the scaffold again: I believe I could master him, the reverend brethren are poor masters of fence, and scant mercy should he get were he down.” Sir John laughed merrily; the cheerful sentiment delighted him. “Nick,” he said, “mayst thou have thy desire, and may I be there to see; I should laugh heartily to see thee pink him; but I want thee to ride with me now; saddle our horses and be ready in ten minutes.” * * * * * In a dismal dell or hollow glen, which had been worn from the side of a hill, in the course of ages by a streamlet, filled with brambles, nettles, and the slime of rotting vegetation, was a squalid hut, and therein dwelt an old blear-eyed, toothless hag, named Gammer Gatch. By common repute she was a witch, and would long since have tasted of a lighted tar-barrel, and a few faggots to help, but for the protection extended to her by her landlord, Sir John. Years of persecution had made her a lonely misanthrope, believing absolutely in her communion with Satan, and her power for evil; poor wretch, whatever may have been her degree of Satanic inspiration she was guilty in intention; and when, after her temporary protector was gone, she was at last brought to trial, she gloried in her supposed alliance with Satan, and so made it easy for the judge and jury to send her with clear consciences to the stake.