“Where—­where?” demanded several voices.

“Yonder,” replied Nicholas, pointing to the further cross.

A general movement took place in that direction, the crowd being headed by the squire and the beadle, but when they came up, they found only Nan Redferne standing behind the obelisk.

“Where the devil is the old witch gone, Dick?” cried Nicholas, in dismay.

“I thought I saw her standing there with her grand-daughter,” replied Richard; “but in truth I did not watch very closely.”

“Search for her—­search for her,” cried Nicholas.

But neither behind the crosses, nor behind any monument, nor in any hole or corner, nor on the other side of the churchyard wall, nor at the back of the little hermitage or chapel, though all were quickly examined, could the old hag be found.

On being questioned, Nan Redferne refused to say aught concerning her grandmother’s flight or place of concealment.

“I begin to think there is some truth in that strange legend of the cross,” said Nicholas.  “Notwithstanding her blindness, the old hag must have managed to read the magic verse upon it, and so have rendered herself invisible.  But we have got the young witch safe.”

“Yeigh, squoire!” responded Sparshot, who had seized hold of Nance—­“hoo be safe enough.”

“Nan Redferne is no witch,” said Richard Assheton, authoritatively.

“Neaw witch, Mester Ruchot!” cried the beadle in amazement.

“No more than any of these lasses around us,” said Richard.  “Release her, Sparshot.”

“I forbid him to do so, till she has been examined,” cried a sharp voice.  And the next moment Master Potts was seen pushing his way through the crowd.  “So you have found a witch, my masters.  I heard your shouts, and hurried on as fast as I could.  Just in time, Master Nicholas—­just in time,” he added, rubbing his hands gleefully.

“Lemme go, Simon,” besought Nance.

“Neaw, neaw, lass, that munnot be,” rejoined Sparshot.

“Help—­save me, Master Richard!” cried the young woman.

By this time the crowd had gathered round her, yelling, hooting, and shaking their hands at her, as if about to tear her in pieces; but Richard Assheton planted himself resolutely before her, and pushed back the foremost of them.

“Remove her instantly to the Abbey, Sparshot,” he cried, “and let her be kept in safe custody till Sir Ralph has time to examine her.  Will that content you, masters?”

“Neaw—­neaw,” responded several rough voices; “swim her!—­swim her!”

“Quite right, my worthy friends, quite right,” said Potts. “Primo, let us make sure she is a witch—­secundo, let us take her to the Abbey.”

“There can be no doubt as to her being a witch, Master Potts,” rejoined Nicholas; “her old grand-dame, Mother Chattox, has just vanished from our sight.”

“Has Mother Chattox been here?” cried Potts, opening his round eyes to their widest extent.