“A witch,” replied Jem, gruffly.  “Nance Redferne, Mother Chattox’s grand-daughter.  Come an see her swum i’ th’ Calder.”

Jennet readily complied, for her curiosity was aroused, and she shared in the family feelings of dislike to Mother Chattox and her descendants.

“Is this Nance Redferne?” she cried, keeping close to her brother, “Ey’m glad yo’n caught her at last.  How dun ye find yersel, Nance?”

“Ill at ease, Jennet,” replied Nance, with a bitter look; “boh it ill becomes ye to jeer me, lass, seein’ yo’re a born witch yoursel.”

“Aha!” cried Potts, looking at the little girl, “So this is a born witch—­eh, Nance?”

“A born an’ bred witch,” rejoined Nance; “jist as her brother Jem here is a wizard.  They’re the gran-childer o’ Mother Demdike o’ Pendle, the greatest witch i’ these parts, an childer o’ Bess Device, who’s nah much better.  Ask me to witness agen ’em, that’s aw.”

“Howd thy tongue, woman, or ey’n drown thee,” muttered Jem, in a tone of deep menace.

“Ye canna, mon, if ey’m the witch ye ca’ me,” rejoined Nance.  “Jennet’s turn’ll come os weel os mine, one o’ these days.  Mark my words.”

“Efore that ey shan see ye burned, ye faggot,” cried Jennet, almost fiercely.

“Ye’n gotten the fiend’s mark o’ your sleeve,” cried Nance.  “Ey see it written i’ letters ov blood.”

“That’s where our cat scratted me,” replied Jennet, hiding her arm quickly.

“Good!—­very good!” observed Potts, rubbing his hands. “’Who but witches can be proof against witches?’ saith our sagacious sovereign.  I shall make something of this girl.  She seems a remarkably quick child—­remarkably quick—­ha, ha!”

By this time, the party having gained the broad flat mead through which the Calder flowed, took their way quickly towards its banks, the spot selected for the ordeal lying about fifty yards above the weir, where the current, ordinarily rapid, was checked by the dam, offering a smooth surface, with considerable depth of water.  If soft natural beauties could have subdued the hearts of those engaged in this cruel and wicked experiment, never was scene better calculated for the purpose than that under contemplation.  Through a lovely green valley meandered the Calder, now winding round some verdant knoll, now washing the base of lofty heights feathered with timber to their very summits, now lost amid thick woods, and only discernible at intervals by a glimmer amongst the trees.  Immediately in front of the assemblage rose Whalley Nab, its steep sides and brow partially covered with timber, with green patches in the uplands where sheep and cattle fed.  Just below the spot where the crowd were collected, the stream, here of some width, passed over the weir, and swept in a foaming cascade over the huge stones supporting the dam, giving the rushing current the semblance and almost the beauty of a natural waterfall.  Below this the stream