How the Forest Spirits paid their Debts.
At the appointed time, Captain Gil made his way to where, some twenty strong, his crew were sitting and standing beneath a wide-spreading tree, with some forty horses grouped around, one and all heavily laden with sacks, barrels slung on either side, heavy boxes, and rolls of sailcloth. Some of the men were smoking, some minding the horses, while others lolled about, half-asleep, upon the ground.
If by chance any of the few rustic people, whose houses were scattered here and there, could have seen them in the shadow of the trees, they might very well have been excused for taking them for occupants of some nether region; while those whose horses did duty for the night, if they found them wet and weary, said nothing, but took it all as a matter of course, feeling as they did sure of encountering trouble if they made a stir, and being satisfied that their silence would be paid for in some indirect manner.
Farmer Goodsell’s team was taken several times over; and one morning he went into the stables to find the horses so weary and dirty that he swore he would stand it no longer, and fetched his wife to see.
She held up her hands and opened her eyes wide.
“It be witchcraft, Jarge,” she exclaimed.
“Nay—nay, girl,” he cried; “it be somebody else’s craft, and what’s that on the bin?”
Mrs Farmer Goodsell took up a packet, opened, looked at it, and her eyes brightened as she ran to the light.
“As fine a bit of silk as I ever see,” she said, with sparkling eyes; “and look, what’s this?”