“It looms like a county jail, that’s being turned into a private madhouse. If so be as how witches weren’t against the law of the land, this seems the very place for them. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Verily, yes, and—no.”
“Because I think that I see the ghosts of a hearse and four horses among those tall trees at that corner.”
“Then, Pig, we must be on the alert—for I see it, too; but the vision has assumed the every-day deception of a post-chaise and four.”
“Jeer as you will, it is a hearse: somebody’s just losing the number of his mess. It will take away a corpse to-night, depend upon it. That a post-chaise! Pooh! I can see the black plumes waving upon the horses’ heads; and—hark at the low, deep moanings that seem to sweep by it—that is not at all natural—let us go back.”
“I was never more resolved to go forward. There is villainy hatching—completing. Wrap your cloak closely about your countenance; don’t mistake the wind for groans, nor the waving branches of cedar-trees for hearse-plumes, but follow me.”
“Who’s afraid?” said Pigtop.
His chattering teeth answered the question.
As I was prepared for everything, I was not surprised to find the principal door open, and the hall filled with iron-bound cases and several plate-chests. As we stepped into the midst of these, completely muffled in our cloaks, a fellow came and whispered to us, “Is all ready?”
“Hush!” said I.