It was too late, however; the gallant, animals, though fatigued by their previous exertions, immediately gave noble chase, and by far the most beautiful and interesting course they had had that day took place upon the broad, clear plain that stretched before them.  It was, indeed, to the eye of a sportsman, one of intense and surpassing interest—­an interest which, even to Woodward, who only laughed at Barney’s story of the witch, was, nevertheless, deepened tenfold by the coincidence between the two circumstances.  The swift and mettlesome dogs pushed her hard, and succeeded in turning her several times, when it was observed that she made a point to manage her running so as to approximate to the haunted house—­a fact which was not unobserved by Barney, who now, having joined Woodward, exclaimed—­

“Mark it, Masther Harry, mark my words, she’s alive still, and will be wid the Shan-dhinne-dhuv in spite o’ them!  Bravo, Sambo!  Well done, Snail; ay, Snail, indeed—­hillo! by the sweets o’ rosin they have her—­no, no—­but it was a beautiful turn, though; and poor Snail, so tired afther his day’s work.  Now, Masther Harry, thunder and turf! how beautiful Sambo takes her up.  Bravo, Sambo! stretch out, my darlin’ that you are!—­O, blood, Masther Harry, isn’t that beautiful?  See how they go neck and neck wid their two noses not six inches from her scut; and dang my buttons but, witch or no witch, she’s a thorough bit o’ game, too.  Come, Bet, don’t be asleep, my ould lady; move along, my darlin’—­do you feel the breath of your sweetheart at your bottom?  Take to your broomstick; you want it.”

As he uttered these words the hare turned,—­indeed it was time for her—­and both dogs shot forward, by the impetus of their flight, so far beyond the point of her turn, that she started off towards the haunted house.  She had little time to spare, however, for they were once more gaining on her; but still she approached the house, the dogs nearing her fast.  She approached the house, we say; she entered the open door, the dogs within a few yards of her, when, almost in an instant, they came to a standstill, looked into it, but did not enter; and when whistled back to where Woodward and Barney stood, they looked in Barney’s eye, not only panting and exhausted, as indeed they were, but terrified also.

“Well, Masther Harry,” said he, assuming the air of a man who spoke with authority, “what do you think of that?”

“I think you are right,” replied Woodward; assuming on his part, for reasons which will be subsequently understood, an impression of sudden conviction.  “I think you are right, Barney, and that the Black Spectre and the witch are acquaintances.”

“Try her wid a silver bullet,” said Barney; “there is nothing else for it.  No dog can kill her—­that’s a clear case; but souple as she is, a silver bullet is the only messenger that can overtake her.  Bad luck to her, the thief! sure, if she’d turn to God and repint, it isn’t codgerin’ wid sich company she’d be, and often in danger, besides, of havin’ a greyhound’s nose at her flank.  I hope you’re satisfied, Masther Harry?”