“Admitting the blind credulity of the multitude,” said Nicholas, “and their proneness to discern the hand of the witch in the most trifling accidents; admitting also, their readiness to accuse any old crone unlucky enough to offend them of sorcery; I still believe that there are actual practisers of the black art, who, for a brief term of power, have entered into a league with Satan, worship him and attend his sabbaths, and have a familiar, in the shape of a cat, dog, toad, or mole, to obey their behests, transform themselves into various shapes—­as a hound, horse, or hare,—­raise storms of wind or hail, maim cattle, bewitch and slay human beings, and ride whither they will on broomsticks.  But, holding the contrary opinion, you will not, I apprehend, aid Master Potts in his quest of witches.”

“I will not,” rejoined Richard.  “On the contrary, I will oppose him.  But enough of this.  Let us go forth.”

And they quitted the church together.

As they issued into the churchyard, they found the principal arbours occupied by the morris-dancers, Robin Hood and his troop, Doctor Ormerod and Sir Ralph having retired to the vicarage-house.

Many merry groups were scattered about, talking, laughing, and singing; but two persons, seemingly objects of suspicion and alarm, and shunned by every one who crossed their path, were advancing slowly towards the three crosses of Paullinus, which stood in a line, not far from the church-porch.  They were females, one about five-and-twenty, very comely, and habited in smart holiday attire, put on with considerable rustic coquetry, so as to display a very neat foot and ankle, and with plenty of ribands in her fine chestnut hair.  The other was a very different person, far advanced in years, bent almost double, palsy-stricken, her arms and limbs shaking, her head nodding, her chin wagging, her snowy locks hanging about her wrinkled visage, her brows and upper lip frore, and her eyes almost sightless, the pupils being cased with a thin white film.  Her dress, of antiquated make and faded stuff, had been once deep red in colour, and her old black hat was high-crowned and broad-brimmed.  She partly aided herself in walking with a crutch-handled stick, and partly leaned upon her younger companion for support.

“Why, there is one of the old women we have just been speaking of—­Mother Chattox,” said Richard, pointing them out, “and with her, her grand-daughter, pretty Nan Redferne.”

“So it is,” cried Nicholas, “what makes the old hag here, I marvel!  I will go question her.”

So saying, he strode quickly towards her.

“How now, Mother Chattox!” he cried.  “What mischief is afoot?  What makes the darkness-loving owl abroad in the glare of day?  What brings the grisly she-wolf from her forest lair?  Back to thy den, old witch!  Ar’t crazed, as well as blind and palsied, that thou knowest not that this is a merry-making, and not a devil’s sabbath?  Back to thy hut, I say!  These sacred precincts are no place for thee.”