One evening, as Goody Dickisson was sitting alone, pondering and discontented, there came in one Mal Spencer, a dark and scowling hag, to whom Giles bore no good-will.  He had beforetime forbidden his wife to hold any intercourse with this witch-woman, who was an object generally of suspicion and mistrust.  If the “evil eye” can be supposed to inhabit a human frame, this old woman had an undisputed claim to its possession.  This night, however, old Molly came hobbling in without further ceremony than a “Good e’en, thou Dickisson wife,” and took her seat opposite the dame in the miller’s own chair.  “Aroynt thee, witch,” should have been returned to such an ill-omened salute; but the miller’s wife was either unwilling or unable to utter this well-known preservative against the malice of the Evil Ones.

The horse-shoe had been taken down from the door, and the blessed herb, moly, was incautiously thrown aside; neither had Goody Dickisson offered up the usual petition that evening, to be defended from the snares of the devil.  Her discontent was too great, and she was in a fitter mood for murmuring than prayer.

Leaning her long thin chin upon a little crutch, and throwing her bleared eyes full upon the dame, old Molly abruptly exclaimed, in a voice like the croaking of a raven—­

“Thou hast asked for children, but they are denied thee.  What said I to thee, Goody Dickisson, in the clough yonder, by the hollow trunk of the oak?  Rememberest thou, when thou saidest thou wouldst pawn thy body for the wish of thy soul?”

Dame Dickisson waxed pale, and her knees shook; but the hag went on.

“Worship the master I serve, and thou shalt have thy desire—­ay and more!”

“More!—­What meanest thou?”

“Come to the feast, as I have bidden thee.  If thou likest not the savour of our company, thou shalt depart, and without harm.”

“But who shall give me a safe conduct that I come back, and harmless as I went?  Once in your possession, methinks”——­

“What!” shouted the beldame, with a look of dark and devilish malignity:—­“the word of a prince!  Shall Goody Dickisson, the miller’s wife, hold it in distrust?  Go, poor fool, and chew thy bitterness, and bake thy bannocks, and fret thy old husband until thy writhen flesh rot from thy bones, and thou gnawest them for malice and vexation.  Is it not glorious to ride on the wind—­to mount the stars—­to kiss the moon through the dark rolling clouds, when the blast scatters them in its might?  To ride unharmed on their huge peaks tipped with thunder?  To be for ever young in desire and enjoyment, though old and haggard, and bent double with age and infirmities?  To have our wish and our revenge—­ay, and the bodies of our enemies wasting before our spells, like wax to the flame?  But go, sneak and drivel, and mind thy meal and barley-cakes, and go childless to thy grave.”

She rose as if to depart; but Goody Dickisson’s evil destiny prevailed, and she promised to attend the feast, with this condition only, that no harm should befall her, nor force nor entreaty should be used to win her consent to join their confederacy.  But she returned not from that unhallowed assembly until body and soul were for ever under the dominion of the destroyer.