After some little consultation between the squire and Crouch, it was agreed that the former should alone force his way to the tree, while the others were to station themselves with the hounds at various points of the stream, above and below the bank, so that, if the otter and her litter escaped their first assailant, they should infallibly perish by the hands of some of the others.  This being agreed upon, the plan was instantly put into execution—­two of the varlets remaining where they were—­two going higher up; while Sherborne and Fogg stationed themselves on great stones in the middle of the stream, whence they could command all around them, and Crouch, wading on with Grip, planted himself at the entrance of Swanside Beck into the Ribble.

Meanwhile, the squire having scaled the bank, entered the thick covert encircling it, and, not without some damage to his face and hands from the numerous thorns and brambles growing amongst it, forced his way upwards until he reached the bare space surrounding the hollow tree; and this attained, his first business was to ascertain that all was in readiness below before commencing the attack.  A glance showed him on one side old Crouch standing up to his middle in the beck, grasping his long otter spear, and with Grip beating the water in front of him in anxious expectation of employment; and in front Fogg, Sherborne, and two of the varlets, with their hounds so disposed that they could immediately advance upon the otter if it plunged into the river, while its passage up or down would be stopped by their comrades.  All this he discerned at a glance; and comprehending from a sign made him by the old huntsman that he should not delay, he advanced towards the tree, and was about to plunge his spear into the hole, hoping to transfix one at least of its occupants, when he was startled by hearing a deep voice apparently issue from the hollows of the timber, bidding him “Beware!”

Nicholas recoiled aghast, for he thought it might be Hobthurst, or the demon of the wood, who thus bespoke him.

“What accursed thing addresses me?” he said, standing on his guard.  “What is it?  Speak!”

“Get hence, Nicholas Assheton,” replied the voice; “an’ meddle not wi’ them os meddles not wi’ thee.”

“Aha!” exclaimed the squire, recovering courage, for he thought this did not sound like the language of a demon.  “I am known am I?  Why should I go hence, and at whose bidding?”

“Ask neaw questions, mon, boh ge,” replied the voice, “or it shan be warse fo’ thee.  Ey am the boggart o’ th’ clough, an’ if theaw bringst me out, ey’n tear thee i’ pieces wi’ my claws, an’ cast thee into t’ Ribble, so that thine own hounts shan eat thee up.”

“Ha! say’st thou so, master boggart,” cried Nicholas.  “For a spirit, thou usest the vernacular of the county fairly enough.  But before trying whether thy hide be proof against mortal weapons I command thee to come forth and declare thyself, that I may judge what manner of thing thou art.”