“The expedition is at the foot of the hill, where they have made a halt.  We must wait a few moments, till I can ascertain what they mean to do.  Ah!  I see.  They are dividing into three parties.  One detachment, headed by Nicholas Assheton, with whom are Potts and Nowell, is about to make the ascent from the spot where they now stand; another, commanded by Sir Ralph Assheton, is moving towards the but-end of the hill; and the third, headed by Sir Thomas Metcalfe, is proceeding to the right.  These are goodly preparations—­ha! ha!  But, what do I behold?  The first detachment have a prisoner with them.  It is Jem Device, whom they have captured on the way, I suppose.  I can tell from the rascal’s looks that he is planning an escape.  Patience, madam, I must see how he executes his design.  There is no hurry.  They are all scrambling up the hill-sides.  Some one slips, and rolls down, and bruises himself severely against the loose stones.  Ho! ho! it is Master Potts.  He is picked up by James Device, who takes him on his shoulders.  What means the knave by such attention?  We shall see anon.  They continue to fight their way upward, and have now reached the narrow path among the rocks.  Take heed, or your necks will be broken.  Ho! ho!  Well done, Jem,—­bravo! lad.  Thy scheme is out now—­ho! ho!”

“What has he done?” asked Mother Chattox.

“Run off with the attorney—­with Master Potts,” replied Fancy; “disappeared in the gloom, so that it is impossible Nicholas can follow him—­ho! ho!”

“But my child!—­where is my child?” cried Mistress Nutter, in agitated impatience.

“Come with me, and I will lead you to her,” replied Fancy, taking her hand; “and do you keep close to us, mistress,” he added to Mother Chattox.

Moving quickly along the heathy plain, they soon reached a small dry hollow, about a hundred paces from the beacon, in the midst of which, as in a grave, was deposited the inanimate form of Alizon.  When the spot was indicated to her by Fancy, the miserable mother flew to it, and, with indescribable delight, clasped her child to her breast.  But the next moment, a new fear seized her, for the limbs were stiff and cold, and the heart had apparently ceased to beat.

“She is dead!” exclaimed Mistress Nutter, frantically.

“No; she is only in a magical trance,” said Fancy; “my mistress can instantly revive her.”

“Prithee do so, then, good Chattox,” implored the lady.

“Better defer it till we have taken her hence,” rejoined the hag.

“Oh! no, now—­now!  Let me be assured she lives!” cried Mistress Nutter.

Mother Chattox reluctantly assented, and, touching Alizon with her skinny finger, first upon the heart and then upon the brow, the poor girl began to show symptoms of life.

“My child—­my child!” cried Mistress Nutter, straining her to her breast; “I am come to save thee!”

“You will scarce succeed, if you tarry here longer,” said Fancy.  “Away!”