One of these masses of decaying
wood, formerly a majestic oak, rested close beside a pool of green and
sluggish water at the bottom of the basin. Such scenes as this (so
gray tradition tells) were once the resort of the Power of Evil and
his plighted subjects; and here, at midnight or on the dim verge of
evening, they were said to stand round the mantling pool, disturbing
its putrid waters in the performance of an impious baptismal rite. The
chill beauty of an autumnal sunset was now gilding the three
hill-tops, whence a paler tint stole down their sides into the hollow.
"Here is our pleasant meeting come to pass," said the aged crone,
"according as thou hast desired. Say quickly what thou wouldst have of
me, for there is but a short hour that we may tarry here."
As the old withered woman spoke, a smile glimmered on her
countenance, like lamplight on the wall of a sepulchre. The lady
trembled, and cast her eyes upward to the verge of the basin, as if
meditating to return with her purpose unaccomplished. But it was not
so ordained.
"I am a stranger in this land, as you know," said she at length.
"Whence I come it matters not; but I have left those behind me with
whom my fate was intimately bound, and from whom I am cut off forever.
There is a weight in my bosom that I cannot away with, and I have come
hither to inquire of their welfare.
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