On his left were a stone
wall and a gate, the boundary of a wood-lot, beyond which lay an
orchard, farther still, a mowing field, and last of all, a house.
These were the premises of Mr. Higginbotham, whose dwelling stood
beside the old highway, but had been left in the background by the
Kimballton turnpike. Dominicus knew the place; and the little mare
stopped short by instinct; for he was not conscious of tightening
the reins.
"For the soul of me, I cannot get by this gate!" said he,
trembling. "I never shall be my own man again, till I see whether
Mr. Higginbotham is hanging on the St. Michael's pear-tree!"
He leaped from the cart, gave the rein a turn round the gate
post, and ran along the green path of the wood-lot as if Old Nick were
chasing behind. Just then the village clock tolled eight, and as
each deep stroke fell, Dominicus gave a fresh bound and flew faster
than before, till, dim in the solitary centre of the orchard, he saw
the fated pear-tree. One great branch stretched from the old contorted
trunk across the path, and threw the darkest shadow on that one
spot. But something seemed to struggle beneath the branch!
The pedlar had never pretended to more courage than befits a man of
peaceable occupation, nor could he account for his valor on this awful
emergency.
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