"She became a maniac, and in three days was buried in the sea," replied the narrator, replacing his quid and taking a hearty draught at a can of ale handed him by Frau Stoll herself.
"Donder ant blixen! I don't pelieve it—tish not true, I vould shwear," said the skipper. "He ish pad enough, put not so pad ash dat—tish one of te itle shtories tat peoplesh frighten von oder mit."
"'Tis said he always gets devil's luck, before he sails, from them as has dealings with the Evil One, and always burns a Bible on his capstan every time he weighs anchor," said the sailor, without regarding the incredulous skipper.
"The last time he was here, when he walked our streets so boldly, with a score of armed bucaniers at his back, before he set sail I heard how he got evil charms from the witch at Hell Gate," observed the warden, in a low, cautious tone.
"I can give ye a wrinkle on that point, I guess," said a lank, half-farmer, half-sailor looking being, who commanded a trader between the Rhode Island plantations and New-York—one of the first of the species now so numerous. "I anchored once, waiting for the flood tide to take me through the gate, close alongside the rock her hut is on. Feeling kind o' neighbourly, and not knowin' then who lived there, I got into my yawl, and pulled ashore to scrape acquaintance and talk a bit. As I came up to the hut I heard a strange noise, and smelt a brimstonish smell, and so thought I'd reconnoitre afore goin' in. Looking through the window, I see the old Witch of Endor and Captain Kyd, as I learned a'terward it was, goin' through the awfullest hellifications ever hearn tell on. She hanged a piece o' yarn round his neck, and then said as how he had a charmed life. Gracious! and the way it lightened and thundered jist then was a sin to death! Blue blazes an' brimstone—great guns and little guns—big devils and little devils, mixed up with owls and hobgoblins, snakes and catamounts, with a sprinkling o' hell-cats and flying sarpents, touched off with the tarnellest yells, 'nough to lift a feller right off his feet by the hair of his head. I thought creation was comin' to an eend, and dropped down on my marrow-bones and prayed away like a disciple. Soon as I could get on my legs, I showed 'um some purty tall walkin' till I got to my yawl again, I tell ye! I expected nothin'd be left o' me when I got there but my eyebrows and shirt risbands."
"She is a fearful woman," said the warden; "and little thanks do we owe them for sending her among us. 'Tis said, before she was transported to the colony from Ireland, that she had spirited away by her foul charms the son of some noble house. Ill has fared the colony the three years she has been in't."
"She shoult pe purned for von vitch vooman," said the skipper; "I would pe te first to make te fagot plaze."
"I'll be there to help you a bit, I guess, too," said the Rhode Islander. "I han't been to Salemtown in New-England for nothin', I guess. The way they do with the critters there is a little the cutest. If they want to tell for sartin if an old woman's a real witch, they throw her into a pond. If she's drownded she's no witch; but if she swims, its gospel proof she is—coz what old woman could swim if she warn't a nat'ral witch. They then tie her to a stake and set fire to her."
"Mit your leave, goot peoplesh, I vill shay vat dey doesh mit vitches in mine countree," said the Dutch burgher, deliberately taking the pipe from his mouth. "Virst, dey tries her py veighing her in te scales mit von Piple; if she be heavier nor te Piple, she ish prove von olt vitch voomans. Dis ish vera goot! Secont, dey tries to shoot her mit silver pulletsh, ant den dey tiesh her heelsh ant het bot' togedder, and drops her into te deep vater. Dat is alsho more vera goot!"
"What are ye gathered here for, ye idle knaves and fat burghers, ye masses of smoked flesh—sponges steeped in ale—and paunches like your own pint-pots, frightening each other's cowardly ears with tales of fear. Who is it ye would kill with your silver bullet, Master Von Schmidt?"