“Where is he going?” said the blacksmith.  “He seems to be making his way towards the mill-stream.”

“No,” said another; “don’t you see he is striking higher up towards the old ford, where the stepping-stones are!”

“He is—­he is,” cried the blacksmith.  “Run on—­run on; don’t you see he is crossing it now?  Tell me, all of you, are you quite sure he is a vampyre, and no mistake?  He ain’t the exciseman, landlord, now, is he?”

“The exciseman, the devil!  Do you think I want to shoot the exciseman?”

“Very good—­then here goes,” exclaimed the Smith.

He stooped, and just as the brisk night air blew aside the clouds from before the face of the moon, and as the stranger was crossing the slippery stones, he fired at him.

* * * * *

How silently and sweetly the moon’s rays fall upon the water, upon the meadows, and upon the woods.  The scenery appeared the work of enchantment, some fairy land, waiting the appearance of its inhabitants.  No sound met the ear; the very wind was hushed; nothing was there to distract the sense of sight, save the power of reflection.

This, indeed, would aid the effect of such a scene.  A cloudless sky, the stars all radiant with beauty, while the moon, rising higher and higher in the heavens, increasing in the strength and refulgence of her light, and dimming the very stars, which seemed to grow gradually invisible as the majesty of the queen of night became more and more manifest.

The dark woods and the open meadows contrasted more and more strongly; like light and shade, the earth and sky were not more distinct and apart; and the ripling stream, that rushed along with all the impetuosity of uneven ground.

The banks are clothed with verdure; the tall sedges, here and there, lined the sides; beds of bulrushes raised their heads high above all else, and threw out their round clumps of blossoms like tufts, and looked strange in the light of the moon.

Here and there, too, the willows bent gracefully over the stream, and their long leaves were wafted and borne up and down by the gentler force of the stream.

Below, the stream widened, and ran foaming over a hard, stony bottom, and near the middle is a heap of stones—­of large stones, that form the bed of the river, from which the water has washed away all earthy particles, and left them by themselves.

These stones in winter could not be seen, they were all under water, and the stream washed over in a turbulent and tumultuous manner.  But now, when the water was clear and low, they are many of them positively out of the water, the stream running around and through their interstices; the water-weeds here and there lying at the top of the stream, and blossoming beautifully.

The daisy-like blossoms danced and waved gently on the moving flood, at the same time they shone in the moonlight, like fairy faces rising from the depths of the river, to receive the principle of life from the moon’s rays.