I touched Dorothy, riding beside me, white as a spirit in the pale radiance, and she turned her sweet, fearless face to mine.

“There is a sound,” I whispered, “very far away.”

She laid her hand in mine and drew bridle, listening.  Van Horn, too, had halted.

Far in the forest the sound stirred the silence; soft, stealthy, nearer, nearer, till it grew into a patter.  Suddenly Van Horn’s horse reared.

“It’s there! it’s there!” he cried, hoarsely, as our horses swung round in terror.

“Look!” muttered Dorothy.

Then a thing occurred that stopped my heart’s blood.  For straight through the forest came running a dark shape, a squattering thing that passed us ere we could draw breath to shriek; animal, human, or spirit, I knew not, but it ran on, thuddy-thud, thuddy-thud! and we struggling with our frantic horses to master them ere they dashed us lifeless among the trees.

“Jesu!” gasped Van Horn, dragging his powerful horse back into the road.  “Can you make aught o’ yonder fearsome thing, like a wart-toad scrabbling on two legs?”

Dorothy, teeth set, drove her heels into her gray’s ribs and forced him to where my mare stood all a-quiver.

“It’s a thing from hell,” panted Van Horn, fighting knee and wrist with his roan.  “My nag shies at neither bear nor wolf!  Look at him now!”

“Nor mine at anything save a savage,” said I, fearfully peering behind me while my mare trembled under me.

“I think we have seen a savage, that is all,” fell Dorothy’s calm voice.  “I think we have seen Catrine Montour.”

At the name, Van Horn swore steadily.

“If that be the witch Montour, she runs like a clansman with the fiery cross,” I said, shuddering.

“And that is like to be her business,” muttered Van Horn.  “The painted forest-men are in the hills, and if Senecas, Cayugas, and Onondagas do not know it this night, it will be no fault of Catrine Montour.”

“Ride on, Peter,” said Dorothy, and checked her horse till my mare came abreast.

“Are you afraid?” I whispered.

“Afraid?  No!” she said, astonished.  “What should arouse fear in me?”

“Your common-sense!” I said, impatiently, irritated to rudeness by the shocking and unearthly spectacle which had nigh unnerved me.  But she answered very sweetly: 

“If I fear nothing, it is because there is nothing that I know of in the world to fright me.  I remember,” she added, gravely, “’A thousand shall fall at my side and ten thousand at my right hand.  And it shall not come nigh me.’  How can I fear, believing that?”

She leaned from her saddle and I saw her eyes searching my face in the darkness.

“Silly,” she said, tenderly, “I have no fear save that you should prove unkind.”

“Then give yourself to me, Dorothy,” I said, holding her imprisoned.

“How can I?  You have me.”