ater than what was afforded by the watching crowd
without. The carriage, which was entirely black, and not unlike a hearse,
was seen to come in by the east end of the town, driving with a furious
career, the driver (dressed also in black) impelling, with a long whip, the
black horses, from whose hoofs sparks of fire were seen to fly; and neither
house nor man seeming to claim his attention, until he arrived at the house
of Wat Webster, where he of the red cravat was known to be. Many followed
the carriage, and many remained at a distance to see who the victim was
that was destined to be carried off in the strangers' vehicle; for, that
the coach was brought there for no other purpose than to carry off one who
could command in an instant a chariot of fire, seemed reasonably to be
entirely out of the question. Marion Webster, the beloved of the village,
was seen to enter, followed by the stranger; and, as the coach flew off, a
loud wail burst from the stricken hearts of the villagers, expressive at
once of their fear and of the intense pity they felt for the fate of one so
much beloved, and whose crimes, much less than theirs, merited so dreadful
a punishment as that she should be carried off to the regions of sorrow.
The evidence, within and without the house, met, and, by the force of
sympathetic similarity, mixed in an instant, carrying away in their course,
like floating straws, the strongest doubts that remained in the mind of the
most sceptical man in Christ's Kirk, of the hapless daughter of Wat Webster
having been carried off by the Devil. The town was in the greatest
commotion; terror and pity were painted on every face; but the feelings of
the public held small proportion, indeed, to the agony which overtook Wat
Webster and his wife, whose only child she was, as well as their pride, and
that of every one in the whole town. Wat, who saw no use in flying after
Sathan--an individual of known locomotive powers--lay extended on the floor
of his cottage, cursing his fate, and bewailing the condition of his lovely
daughter, whose entry into Pandemonium, and first scream produced by the
burning lake, were as distinct in his eye and ear as ever was his morning
porridge, when they boiled and bubbled by the heat of the fire. But Kitty
was up and out, with a mighty crowd or tail in attendance, flying up and
down in every direction, to see if any burning trace could be had of her
beloved Marion; for she declared that, if she only