"Their wagons," she said, "started to-day at sundown from Tribes Hill; Sir John, the Butlers, and the Glencoe gentlemen follow at dawn. There are post-chaises for the ladies out yonder, and an escort, too. But nobody would stop them; they're as safe as Catrine Montour."
"Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked.
"A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and none dare stop her."
"A real hag? You mean a ghost?"
"No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that could choke an ox."
"Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused.
"Why? Who knows? She is always seen running."
"Where does she run to?"
"I don't know. Once Henry Stoner, the hunter, followed her, and they say no one but Jack Mount can outrun him; but she ran and ran, and he after her, till the day fell down, and he fell gasping like a foundered horse. But she ran on."
"Oh, tally," I said; "do you believe that?"