He traversed the lonely galleries of the Hall like a spirit, with noiseless step.
He quietly went towards the stables to saddle his favourite horse.
As he approached the stable door he was confronted by Tim, who looked more dead than alive.
“I could not sleep, master,” said the groom, “the horrid sights as I have seen this ere night is enough to turn one grey.”
“Nonsense,” said Ned, with a light laugh, “nonsense, lad, you see it hasn’t turned me grey.”
“No, sir, truly; but then you ain’t made like common folks; they say Wildfire Ned is all cast iron.”
“Nonsense, Tim; it’s all a delusion to think that this Red Man of the Gibbet could leave his chains and go prowling about when he likes.”
“No it ain’t, sir, all respect to you, sir. I’ve heard people say that at some seasons of the year he does leave his chains. If he could talk to me, as I rode home, he can do anything; that’s my humble opinion.”
“It can’t be true,” said Ned. “And, to prove it, I’ll wager a hundred gold pieces that if we ride over to the Lonely Heath this very night we shall find the gibbet tenanted as it always is.”
“Ride over to the gibbet, master?” said Tim, in horror. “Surely, you can’t think of doing anything so rash, and to-night, too, when we know that all the country around is alive with that demon gang called the Skeleton Crew?”