Through the murky air, and borne as if on the wings of the wind, two dark forms are flying swiftly.  Over the tops of the tempest-shaken trees they go, and as they gain the skirts of the thicket an oak beneath is shivered by a thunderbolt.  They hear the fearful crash, and see the splinters fly far and wide; and the foremost of the two, who, with her skinny arm extended, seems to direct their course, utters a wild scream of laughter, while a raven, speeding on broad black wing before them, croaks hoarsely.  Now the torrent rages below, and they see its white waters tumbling over a ledge of rock; now they pass over the brow of a hill; now skim over a dreary waste and dangerous morass.  Fearful it is to behold those two flying figures, as the lightning shows them, bestriding their fantastical steed; the one an old hag with hideous lineaments and distorted person, and the other a proud dame, still beautiful, though no longer young, pale as death, and her loose jetty hair streaming like a meteor in the breeze.

The ride is over, and they alight near the door of a solitary hovel.  The raven has preceded them, and, perched on the chimney top, flies down it as they enter, and greets them with hoarse croaking.  The inside of the hut corresponds with its miserable exterior, consisting only of two rooms, in one of which is a wretched pallet; in the other are a couple of large chests, a crazy table, a bench, a three-legged stool, and a spinning-wheel.  A caldron is suspended above a peat fire, smouldering on the hearth.  There is only one window, and a thick curtain is drawn across it, to secure the inmate of the hut from prying eyes.

Mother Chattox closes and bars the door, and, motioning Mistress Nutter to seat herself upon the stool, kneels down near the hearth, and blows the turf into a flame, the raven helping her, by flapping his big black wings, and uttering a variety of strange sounds, as the sparks fly about.  Heaping on more turf, and shifting the caldron, so that it may receive the full influence of the flame, the hag proceeds to one of the chests, and takes out sundry small matters, which she places one by one with great care on the table.  The raven has now fixed his great talons on her shoulder, and chuckles and croaks in her ear as she pursues her occupation.  Suddenly a piece of bone attracts his attention, and darting out his beak, he seizes it, and hops away.

“Give me that scalp, thou mischievous imp!” cries the hag, “I need it for the charm I am about to prepare.  Give it me, I say!”

But the raven still held it fast, and hopped here and there so nimbly that she was unable to catch him.  At length, when he had exhausted her patience, he alighted on Mistress Nutter’s shoulder, and dropped it into her lap.  Engrossed by her own painful thoughts, the lady had paid no attention to what was passing, and she shuddered as she took up the fragment of mortality, and placed it upon the table.  A few tufts of hair, the texture of which showed they had belonged to a female, still adhered to the scalp.  Mistress Nutter regarded it fixedly, and with an interest for which she could not account.