“One day in the year alone thou shalt be subject to mischance.  It is the feast of All-Hallows, when the witches meet to renew their vows.  On this night thou must be as they, and must join their company.  Still thou mayest hide thyself under any form thou shalt choose; but it shall abide upon thee until midnight.  Till then thy spells are powerless.  On no other day shall harm befall thee.”

The maiden felt her pride dilate:—­her weak and common nature she thought was no longer a degradation; she seemed as though she could bound through infinite space.  Already was she invested with the attributes of immateriality, when she awoke!—­and in her own chamber, whither the servants had conveyed her from the crag an hour before, having found her asleep, or in a swoon, upon the verge of the precipice.  She looked at her hand; the sharp wound was there, and she felt her brow tingle as if to remind her of that irrevocable pledge.

Lord William sued in vain to the maid of Bernshaw Tower.  She repulsed him with scorn and contumely.  He vowed that he would win her, though the powers of darkness withstood the attempt.  To accomplish this impious purpose, he sought Mause, the witch’s dwelling.  It was a dreary hut, built in a rocky cleft, shunned by all as the abode of wicked and malignant spirits, which the dame kept and nursed as familiars, for the fulfilment of her malicious will.

The night was dark and heavy when Lord William tied his steed to a rude gate that guarded the entrance to the witch’s den.  He raised the latch, but there was no light within.

“Holloa!” cried the courageous intruder; but all was dark and silent as before.  Just as he was about to depart he thought he heard a rustling near him, and presently the croaking voice of the hag close at his ear.

“Lord William,” said she, “thou art a bold man to come hither after nightfall.”

He felt something startled, but he swerved not from his purpose.

“Can’st help me to a bride, Mother Helston?” cried he, in a firm voice; “for I feel mightily constrained to wed!”

“Is the doomed maiden of Bernshaw a bride fit for Lord William’s bosom?” said the invisible sorceress.

“Give me some charm to win her consent,—­I care not for the rest.”

“Charm!” replied the beldame, with a screech that made Lord William start back.  “Spells have I none that can bind her.  I would she were in my power; but she hath spell for spell.  Nought would avail thee, for she is beyond my reach; her power would baffle mine?”

“Is she too tainted with the iniquity that is abroad?”

“I tell thee yea; and my spirit must bow to hers.  Wouldst wed her now—­fond, feeble-hearted mortal?”

Lord William was silent; but the beautiful form of the maiden seemed to pass before him, and he loved her with such overmastering vehemence that if Satan himself had stood in the gap he would not have shrunk from his purpose.