lowed and rushed about the field into which they had been turned
after milking. Thinking that dogs had got amongst them, the herd and
a watchman--for now no man would stir alone after sunset at
Blossholme--went to see what was happening, and presently fell down half
dead with fright. For there, leaning over the gate and laughing at them,
was the foul fiend himself--the fiend with horns and tail, and in his
hand an instrument like a pitchfork.

How the pair got home again, they never knew, but this is certain, that
after that night no one could milk those cows; moreover, some of them
slipped their calves, and became so wild that they must be slaughtered.

Next came rumours that even the Nunnery itself was haunted, especially
the chapel. Here voices were heard talking, and Emlyn Stower, who was
praying there, came out vowing that she had seen a ball of fire which
rolled up and down the aisle, and in the centre of it a man's head, that
seemed to try to talk to her, but could not.

Into this matter inquiry was held by the Abbot himself, who asked Emlyn
if she knew the face that was in the ball of fire. She answered that she
thought so. It seemed very like to one of his own guards, named Andrew
Woods, or more commonly Drunken Andrew, a Scotchman whom Sir Christopher
Harflete was said to have killed on the night of the great burning. At
least his Lordship would remember that this Andrew had a broken nose,
and so had the head in the fire, but, as it appeared to have changed a
great deal since death, she could not be quite certain. All she was sure
of was that it seemed to be trying to give her some message.

Now, recalling the trick that had been played with the said Andrew's
body, the Abbot was silent. Only he asked shrewdly, if Emlyn had seen so
terrible a thing there, how it came about that she was not afraid to
be alone in the chapel, which he was informed she frequented much. She
answered, with a laugh, that it was men she dreaded, not spirits, good
or ill.

"No," he exclaimed, with a burst of rage, "you do not dread them, woman,
because you are a witch, and summon them; nor shall we be free from
these wizardries until the fire has you and your company."

"If so," replied Emlyn coolly, "I will ask dead Andrew for his message
to you next time we meet, unless he chooses to deliver it to you
himself."

So they parted, but that very night there happened the worst thing of
all. It was about one in the morning when the A