“What, still outside?” she cried in a jeering tone, and with a wild discordant laugh.  “Methought thou affirmedst thou couldst find a way into my dwelling.”

“I do not yet despair of finding it,” replied Richard.

“Fool!” screamed the hag.  “I tell thee it is in vain to attempt it without my consent.  With a word, I could make these walls one solid mass, without window or outlet from base to summit.  With a word, I could shower stones upon thy head, and crush thee to dust.  With a word, I could make the earth swallow thee up.  With a word, I could whisk thee hence to the top of Pendle Hill.  Ha! ha!  Dost fear me now?”

“No,” replied Richard, undauntedly.  “And the word thou menacest me with shall never be uttered.”

“Why not?” asked Mother Demdike, derisively.

“Because thou wouldst not brave the resentment of one whose power is equal to thine own—­if not greater,” replied the young man.

“Greater it is not—­neither equal,” rejoined the old hag, haughtily; “but I do not desire a quarrel with Alice Nutter.  Only let her not meddle with me.”

“Once more, art thou willing to admit me?” demanded Richard.

“Ay, upon one condition,” replied Mother Demdike.  “Thou shalt learn it anon.  Stand aside while I let down the ladder.”

Richard obeyed, and a pair of narrow wooden steps dropped to the ground.

“Now mount, if thou hast the courage,” cried the hag.

The young man was instantly beside her, but she stood in the doorway, and barred his further progress with her extended staff.  Now that he was face to face with her, he wondered at his own temerity.  There was nothing human in her countenance, and infernal light gleamed in her strangely-set eyes.  Her personal strength, evidently unimpaired by age, or preserved by magical art, seemed equal to her malice; and she appeared as capable of executing any atrocity, as of conceiving it.  She saw the effect produced upon him, and chuckled with malicious satisfaction.

“Saw’st thou ever face like mine?” she cried.  “No, I wot not.  But I would rather inspire aversion and terror than love.  Love!—­foh!  I would rather see men shrink from me, and shudder at my approach, than smile upon me and court me.  I would rather freeze the blood in their veins, than set it boiling with passion.  Ho! ho!”

“Thou art a fearful being, indeed!” exclaimed Richard, appalled.

“Fearful, am I?” ejaculated the old witch, with renewed laughter.  “At last thou own’st it.  Why, ay, I am fearful.  It is my wish to be so.  I live to plague mankind—­to blight and blast them—­to scare them with my looks—­to work them mischief.  Ho! ho!  And now, let us look at thee,” she continued, holding the lamp over him.  “Why, soh?—­a comely youth!  And the young maids doat upon thee, I doubt not, and praise thy blooming cheeks, thy bright eyes, thy flowing locks, and thy fine limbs.  I hate thy beauty, boy, and would mar it!—­would canker thy wholesome flesh, dim thy lustrous eyes, and strike thy vigorous limbs with palsy, till they should shake like mine!  I am half-minded to do it,” she added, raising her staff, and glaring at him with inconceivable malignity.