“I beseech ye, let us hurry from the place,” whispered Abigail, “it be uncanny. But there on that spot an hut stood when I went to Boston Town.”
Master Ronald spurred his horse, but suddenly drew up again. “What was that?” he cried; “my horse stumbled.”
“Hurry!” shrieked Abigail, glancing down and recognizing the outlines of the dark object, “it be the witch’s pail.”
Now Master Ronald, for all his fine scorn of witches, spurred his horse and rode on in a lively fashion. His face had grown so wet with perspiration that he was obliged to borrow Abigail’s kerchief, his own not being convenient to get at under his belted doublet.
“It be the kerchief ye lent me this morn,” said Abigail. She clasped her arms tightly around his waist, casting terror-stricken glances behind her. “Master Ronald,” she inquired, recalling some of her father’s tales, “ye don’t see a wolf near by, do ye, with bloody jowls, a-sitting down, a-grinning at us?”
“I fear I am going in the wrong direction,” he answered abstractedly; “we have gone some ways now. Your eyes are sharp, Mistress Abigail. See if you can distinguish our friends ahead.”
“Not one do I see,” she replied, after a moment’s peering.
“We will turn back toward the sea,” said the student, “and try to strike the path again from there.”