One gloomy and tempestuous night in November, a pedlar-boy hastily
traversed the moor. Terrified to find himself involved in darkness
amidst its boundless wastes, a thousand frightful traditions, connected
with this dreary scene, darted across his mind--every blast, as it
swept in hollow gusts over the heath, seemed to teem with the sighs of
departed spirits--and the birds, as they winged their way above his
head, appeared, with loud and shrill cries, to warn him of approaching
dagger. The whistle with which he usually beguiled his weary pilgrimage
died away into silence, and he groped along with trembling and
uncertain steps, which sounded too loudly in his ears. The promise of
Scripture occurred to his memory, and revived his courage. "I will be
unto thee as a rock in the desert, and as an hiding-place in the
storm." _Surely_, thought he, _though alone, I am not forsaken;_ and a
prayer for assistance hovered on his lips.
A light now glimmered in the distance which would lead him, he
conjectured, to the cottage of the old woman; and towards that he
eagerly bent his way, remembering as he hastened along, that when he
had visited it the year before, it was in company with a large party of
travellers, who had beguiled the evening with those tales of mystery
which had so lately filled his brain with images of terror.
Pages:
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54