oon as I named
Bridget Fitzgerald, he exclaimed:

'The Coldholme witch! the Irish papist! I'd have had her ducked long
since but for that other papist, Sir Philip Tempest. He has had to
threaten honest folk about here over and over again, or they'd have had
her up before the justices for her black doings. And it's the law of
the land that witches should be burnt! Ay, and of Scripture, too, sir!
Yet you see a papist, if he's a rich squire, can overrule both law and
Scripture. I'd carry a fagot myself to rid the country of her!'

Such a one could give me no help. I rather drew back what I had already
said; and tried to make the parson forget it, by treating him to
several pots of beer, in the village inn, to which we had adjourned for
our conference at his suggestion. I left him as soon as I could, and
returned to Coldholme, shaping my way past deserted Starkey
Manor-House, and coming upon it by the back. At that side were the
oblong remains of the old moat, the waters of which lay placid and
motionless under the crimson rays of the setting sun; with the
forest-trees lying straight along each side, and their deep-green
foliage mirrored to blackness in the burnished surface of the moat
below--and the broken sun-dial at the end nearest the hall--and the
heron, standing on one leg at the water's edge, lazily looking down for
fish--the lonely and desolate house scarce needed the broken windows,
the weeds on the door-sill, the broken shutter softly flapping to and
fro in the twilight breeze, to fill up the picture of desertion and
decay. I lingered about the place until the growing darkness warned me
on. And then I passed along the path, cut by the orders of the last
lady of Starkey Manor-House, that led me to Bridget's cottage. I
resolved at once to see her; and, in spite of closed doors--it might be
of resolved will--she should see me. So I knocked at her door, gently,
loudly, fiercely. I shook it so vehemently that at length the old
hinges gave way, and with a crash it fell inwards, leaving me suddenly
face to face with Bridget--I, red, heated, agitated with my so
long-baffled efforts--she, stiff as any stone, standing right facing
me, her eyes dilated with terror, her ashen lips trembling, but her
body motionless. In her hands she held her crucifix, as if by that holy
symbol she sought to oppose my entrance. At sight of me, her whole
frame relaxed, and she sank back upon a chair. Some mighty tension had
given way. Still