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“Merciful to me! ’Tis ’most owl-light now!” gasped John Aggett.

“By St. George, and the dragon too, I’m near my fate then! Up and off, John! I’ll see my bride before nightfall. Come on.”

The woman huddled up her cards, cleaned the table and poured the black liquid into the fire. Timothy was eager to be gone, and now took an abrupt leave of his soothsayer; while as for Gammer Gurney, she stood like one in a dream and regarded Tim with vacant eyes. It was her custom thus to appear elevated in the spirit after exercise of her remarkable gifts. So they left her at her cottage door and started for home at a good pace. The fresh air contributed much to blow superstition out of Timothy’s mind; but his companion continued taciturn and was evidently impressed by what he had seen and heard.

“She gave I goose-flesh down the spine, for all her outlandish fiery drink,” he said.

“You’re a fool, John; an’ I’m a greater. A good guinea wasted.”

Nearing home, they turned off the Moor, passed the cottage of Aggett’s mother, and proceeded along the hill. Then it was that John, desiring to shift the game-bag from his girdle to his shoulder, hung back some forty paces. His fingers were cold and the buckle was stiff; his master therefore gained upon him and, passing the corner of a plantation, went out of sight. Mending his pace to overtake the other, John heard hidden voices, the hour then being dusk; and, a moment later, coming round the corner of the woodlands, he saw Timothy Chave in conversation with a woman. She was clad in scarlet flannel even to the snug hood round her ears, and her figure shone brightly through the gloaming.