“A fine morning, sir, after an awful night,” observed the stranger.
“It is, sir,” replied Woodward, “and a most awful night it assuredly was. Have you heard whether there has been destruction to life or property to any extent?”
“Not so much to life,” replied his companion, “but seriously, I understand, to property. If you had ridden far you must have observed the number of dwelling-houses and out-offices that have been unroofed, and some of them altogether blown down.”
“I have not ridden far,” said Woodward; “I was obliged to take shelter in the house of a country gentleman named Goodwin, who lives over in the trees.”
“You were fortunate in finding shelter anywhere,” replied the stranger, “during such a tempest. I remember nothing like it.”
As they proceeded along, indulging in similar chat, they observed that five or six countrymen, who had been walking at a smart pace, about a couple of hundred yards before them, came suddenly to a stand-still, and, after appearing to consult together, they darted off the road and laid themselves down, as if with a view of concealment, behind the grassy ditch which ran along it.
“What can these persons mean?” asked Woodward; “they seem to be concealing themselves.”
“Unquestionably they do,” replied the stranger; “and yet there appears to be no pursuit after them. I certainly can give no guess as to their object.”
While attempting, as they went along, to account for the conduct of the peasants, they were met by a female with a head of hair that was nearly blood-red, and whose features were hideously ugly, or rather, we should say, absolutely revolting. Her brows, which were of the same color as the hair, were knit into a scowl, such as is occasioned by an intense expression of hatred and malignity, yet which was rendered almost frightful by a squint that would have disfigured the features of a demon. Her coarse hair lay matted together in stiff, wiry waves! on each side of her head, from whence it streamed down her shoulders, which it covered like a cape of scarlet. As they approached each other, she glanced at them with a look from which they could only infer that she seemed to meditate the murder of each, and yet there was mingled with its malignity a bitter but derisive expression that was perfectly diabolical.
“What a frightful hag!” exclaimed Woodward, addressing his companion; “I never had a perfect conception of the face of an ogress until now! Did you observe her walrus tusks, as they projected over her misshapen nether lip? The hag appears to be an impersonation of all that is evil.”