“Master Ronald,” she cried excitedly, “there be a witch’s cottage back of those five pines.” “Nonsense,” answered the student, glancing around him sharply. “But I be sure o’ it,” averred Abigail. “I saw an old goody with a gobber tooth, cooking a witch-cake in a weamy-wimy hut, near five pine trees. And just beyond I drew her water in a bucket, at a spring.” Master Ronald, great as was his anxiety to press forward to Salem, nevertheless turned his horse’s head and went up beyond the pines until he came to the spring. “Here is your spring, Mistress Abigail,” he said, drawing rein and laughing with gay scorn; “come now, show me the old hag and her hut.” He looked back and saw the little maid’s face white in the moonlight. “I ken not where it can be now,” she said in a fearful whisper, “but it was there.” She pointed to an empty space of ground where some flowers could be seen in the silver moonshine, but there was neither hut nor any sign of human habitation. As the student observed these flowers a strange uneasiness took possession of him. A climbing rose stood upright in the air with naught to cling to, while the other flowers seemed to follow a pathway to an invisible dwelling. “I beseech ye, let us hurry from the place,” whispered Abigail, “it be uncanny. But there on that spot an hut stood when I went to Boston Town.” Master Ronald spurred his horse, but suddenly drew up again. “What was that?” he cried; “my horse stumbled.” “Hurry!” shrieked Abigail, glancing down and recognizing the outlines of the dark object, “it be the witch’s pail.” Now Master Ronald, for all his fine scorn of witches, spurred his horse and rode on in a lively fashion. His face had grown so wet with perspiration that he was obliged to borrow Abigail’s kerchief, his own not being convenient to get at under his belted doublet. “It be the kerchief ye lent me this morn,” said Abigail. She clasped her arms tightly around his waist, casting terror-stricken glances behind her. “Master Ronald,” she inquired, recalling some of her father’s tales, “ye don’t see a wolf near by, do ye, with bloody jowls, a-sitting down, a-grinning at us?” “I fear I am going in the wrong direction,” he answered abstractedly; “we have gone some ways now. Your eyes are sharp, Mistress Abigail. See if you can distinguish our friends ahead.” “Not one do I see,” she replied, after a moment’s peering. “We will turn back toward the sea,” said the student, “and try to strike the path again from there.” Suddenly a lusty calling broke the silence. “What can that be?” cried Master Ronald; “it sounds uncommon near.” “It be Lord Christopher’s voice,” said Abigail; “summat awful has happed.” “I cannot get the direction of the sound; can you?” asked the young man, holding his hand to his ear. “Just ahead o’ us,” cried Abigail. “Hurry!” After several moments of brisk riding they came to a bar of sand where the sea had once sent up an arm. All was silent again, save for the hooting of an owl.