For, from a dark corner, there jumped at her a witch in the form of a toad.
Now it is all very well for a little maid to stand still and scream when assailed by a witch, but when a second and a third, a fourth, a fifth, and even a sixth witch appear, hopping like toads, it behooves that little maid to stop screaming and turn her attention to the best plan of removing herself from their vicinity. So Abigail frantically stepped upon a stool and thence to the table. Then she looked down. She saw the six witches squatted in a row on the floor, all looking up at her, blinking their bright eyes. They had such a knowing and mischievous air that she felt a yet greater distance from them would be more acceptable. With an ease born of long experience in climbing trees, she swung herself to the rafter above the table. Her feet, hanging over, were half concealed by the bunches of dried herbs tied to the beams. She had no sooner seated herself as comfortably as possible, when she heard footsteps and the tap of a walking-stick in the kitchen. Another moment and the door opened, and Sir Jonathan Jamieson put his head inside.
“Are you in, Master Wentworth?” he asked. Receiving no reply he stepped inside. He lifted the cover from the large bowl and instantly recoiled. “Faugh,” he muttered, “the stuff has a sickish smell.” He searched the table, even peered into the pockets of Master Wentworth’s dressing-gown hanging on the wall.
Abigail, holding her small nose tightly, silently prayed. The dust she had raised from the herbs made her desire to sneeze.
Suddenly Sir Jonathan sneezed violently.
“Kerchew,” came a mild little echo.
“Kerchew!” sneezed Sir Jonathan again.
“Kerchew,” went Abigail in instant imitation.
“Kerchew!” sneezed Sir Jonathan, more violently than ever this third time.