After sharply chiding the raven, Mother Chattox put forth her hand to grasp the prize she had been robbed of, when Mistress Nutter checked her by observing, “You said you got this scalp from Goldshaw churchyard.  Know you ought concerning it?”

“Ay, a good deal,” replied the old woman, chuckling.  “It comes from a grave near the yew-tree, and not far from Abbot Cliderhow’s cross.  Old Zachariah Worms, the sexton, digged it up for me.  That yellow skull had once a fair face attached to it, and those few dull tufts were once bright flowing tresses.  She who owned them died young; but, young as she was, she survived all her beauty.  Hollow cheeks and hollow eyes, wasted flesh, and cruel cough, were hers—­and she pined and pined away.  Folks said she was forespoken, and that I had done it.  I, forsooth!  She had never done me harm.  You know whether I was rightly accused, madam.”

“Take it away,” cried Mistress Nutter, hurriedly, and as if struggling against some overmastering feeling.  “I cannot bear to look at it.  I wanted not this horrible reminder of my crimes.”

“This was the reason, then, why Ralph stole the scalp from me,” muttered the hag, as she threw it, together with some other matters, into the caldron.  “He wanted to show you his sagacity.  I might have guessed as much.”

“I will go into the other room while you make your preparations,” said Mistress Nutter, rising; “the sight of them disturbs me.  You can summon me when you are ready.”

“I will, madam,” replied the old hag, “and you must control your impatience, for the spell requires time for its confection.”

Mistress Nutter made no reply, but, walking into the inner room, closed the door, and threw herself upon the pallet.  Here, despite her anxiety, sleep stole upon her, and though her dreams were troubled, she did not awake till Mother Chattox stood beside her.

“Have I slept long?” she inquired.

“More than three hours,” replied the hag.

“Three hours!” exclaimed Mistress Nutter.  “Why did you not wake me before?  You would have saved me from terrible dreams.  We are not too late?”

“No, no,” replied Mother Chattox; “there is plenty of time.  Come into the other room.  All is ready.”

As Mistress Nutter followed the old hag into the adjoining room, a strong odour, arising from a chafing-dish, in which herbs, roots, and other ingredients were burning, assailed her, and, versed in all weird ceremonials, she knew that a powerful suffumigation had been made, though with what intent she had yet to learn.  The scanty furniture had been cleared away, and a circle was described on the clay floor by skulls and bones, alternated by dried toads, adders, and other reptiles.  In the midst of this magical circle, the caldron, which had been brought from the chimney, was placed, and, the lid being removed, a thick vapour arose from it.  Mistress Nutter looked around for the raven, but the bird was nowhere to be seen, nor did any other living thing appear to be present beside themselves.