‘Here!’ cried a dozen voices, while a dozen hands pointed out sturdy John, still basking in the terrors of the pamphlet.
The rider, giving his bridle to one of those who surrounded him, dismounted, and approached John, hat in hand, but with great haste.
‘Whence come ye?’ said John.
‘From Kingston, master.’
‘And wherefore?’
‘On most pressing business.’
‘Of what nature?’
‘Witchcraft.’
Witchcraft! Everybody looked aghast at the breathless messenger, and the breathless messenger looked equally aghast at everybody—except Will Marks, who, finding himself unobserved, not only squeezed the young lady again, but kissed her twice. Surely he must have been bewitched himself, or he never could have done it—and the young lady too, or she never would have let him.
‘Witchcraft!’ cried Will, drowning the sound of his last kiss, which was rather a loud one.