Not many nights after, as Robin was late in the stable, his mistress came with the usual request, and her magic bridle in her hand.

“Now, good Robin, the cream is in the bowl, and the beer behind the spigot, and my good man is in bed.”

“Whither away, mistress?” said Robin, diligently whisping down and soothing the mare, who trembled from head to foot when she heard her mistress’s voice.

“For a journey, Robin.  I have business at Colne; but I will not fail to come back again before sunrise.”

“Ay, mistress, this is always your tale; but measter catched her in a woundy heat last time, and will not let her go.”

“But, Robin, she shall be in the stable and dry two hours before my old churl gets up.”

“But measter says she maunna go.”

“Thou hast told him, then,—­and a murrain light on thee!”

With eyes glistening like witch-fires, did the dame bestow her malison.  Robin half-repented his refusal; but he was stubborn, and his courage not easily shaken.  Besides, he had bragged at the last Michaelmas feast that he cared not a rush for never a witch in the parish.  He had an Agnus Dei in his bosom, and a leaf from the holy herb in his clogs; and what recked he of spells and incantations?  Furthermore, he had a waistcoat of proof given to him by his grandmother.[40]

“Since thou hast denied me the mare, I’ll take thee in her place.”

Robin felt in his bosom for the Agnus Dei cake, but it was gone!—­He had thrown of his waistcoat, too, for the work, and his clogs were lying under the rack.  Before he could furnish himself with these counter-charms, Goody Dickisson threw the bridle upon him, using these portentous words:—­

    “Horse, horse, see thou be;
    And where I point thee carry me.”

Swift as the rush of the wind, Robin felt their power.  His nature changed:  he grew more agile and capacious; and without further ado, found Goody upon his back, and his own shanks at an ambling gallop on the high-road to Pendle.  He panted and grew weary, but she urged him on with an unsparing hand, lashing and spurring with all her might, until at last poor Robin, unused to such expedition, flagged and could scarcely crawl.  But needs must when the witches drive.  Rest and despite were denied, until, almost dead with toil and terror, he halted in one of the steep gullies of Pendle near to Malkin Tower.

It was an old grey-headed ruin, solitary and uninhabited.  The cold October wind whistled through its joints and crannies;—­the walls were studded with bright patches of moss and lichen;—­darkness and desolation brooded over it, unbroken by aught but the cry of the moor-fowl and the stealthy prowl of the weasel and wild cat.