Ned now had a full view of the famous old oak tree, and on its wide spreading branches he distinctly saw dark rows of dead men hanging against the bright sky.
The sight filled him with horror, but not with fear.
“What inhuman scoundrels!” he sighed. “They must be fiends ever to act in this manner.”
Nothing daunted, he dismounted from his mare, and tied her to a stump.
As he did so he heard a voice, which said, slowly and solemnly—
“Edward Warbeck, beware! Retrace your steps; no one approaches the blasted oak and lives!”
“Lying fiends!” said Wildfire Ned, “lying fiends! wherever you be, I fear not your crazy croakings!”
As he spoke fire flashed from his eyes, and he boldly advanced.
Dry leaves rustled in the wind, the breezes sighed, and as he looked up at that fearful gibbet with its many human forms dangling in the air a sudden tremor thrilled his whole frame.
The face of each hapless victim was turned downwards towards him, and they seemed to smile grimly and savagely at his upturned face.