Whatever the old woman's creed was, she not only looked like a witch, but thought herself one. Her appearance, which had gone a long way to establish her reputation as a witch, was exactly what was expected from such a title. Her features were pinched, her sharp curved nose and pointed chin guarded her one-toothed mumbling mouth like a pair of nutcrackers. Her eyes were beady and bright and protected by thick grey eyebrows that matched the straggly beard upon her chin. Her hair hung loose in long rats' tails. Her fingers were long and bony, and for ever clawing something invisible as she mumbled. She was hump-backed and in the worst weather she would not wear shoes or stockings, but would hobble along in a quick running glide upon bare feet.
Needless to say, her reputation as a witch was not only encouraged by her own pride in her power, but by many stories that were spread about her by the Marsh people. Several people took their oath at having heard unearthly shrieks coming from the hovel at night and some went so far to assert that the oily smoke that coiled from her chimney stack took on the most weird shapes of devils and foul beasts as soon as it escaped into the air. The place had a weird fascination for cats, and people said that she summoned them to assist her in her evil practices, and certain it was that the most domesticated hearthside puss that once got her call was never seen again by the owners.
Perhaps this fact could account for the weird shriekings, as the first thing Dr. Syn noticed was a newly-skinned cat's coat nailed to her door.
Mother Handaway had heard the thud of the horse's hoofs getting nearer and nearer and instead of being surprised she seemed to expect that the wild animal was bringing her a visitor, for she flung open the door, covered her face with her skinny claws, and prostrating herself whimpered: “Hail, Master.”
Behind her back was an evil-smelling cauldron that bubbled over the fierce fire and Dr. Syn guessed that the old hag had been attempting to raise the devil. Well this time he saw to it that she was not disappointed, for he had every reason to get the woman into his power, so making the horse rear, plunge and scream with rage, he himself let out the most diabolical yowlings of satanic laughter.
“Aye,” replied Syn in a truly terrible voice, “I am your Master. Your Master the Devil. But see to it that you tell no one that I favour you by appearing to you in the flesh, for if you do they will seize you for the witch that you are. Take this bag of guineas”—and he flung down the half-filled sack upon the threshold. “Each coin is stamped with King George's head and spade, though it was minted in the furnaces of Hell. With it I buy your stable, in which you will hide and keep my horse. You will feed it as you are directed. But have a great care that no one sees it, for if they should, it will mean death. So long as you keep it truly well and hidden you shall never lack for gold. Is it a bargain?”
“Yes, Master,” answered the old woman. “But are you in truth Satan himself that I have raised by my incantations?”
“Aye,” replied Syn in a deep voice. “But you must call me 'the Scarecrow,' for as such I come to rule the Marsh. I shall bring my horse to you before the dawn. After that, I shall send my chief messenger to fetch the horse when I have need of him.”
“How shall I know him, Master?” asked the old woman.
“I will send him in the guise of a man who can be seen traveling the Marsh without exciting suspicion. Do you know the sexton of Dymchurch?”
“Yes, Master. He is one of the few men who is not afraid to talk to me,” replied the witch. “I know him well. He is often here with his jokes, and he will generally bring me a drop of something to keep an old body cheerful. He and his master, Dr. Syn, have often come to cheer me.”
“The holy vicar of Dymchurch?” asked Syn scornfully.
“Aye, but he's a good man, for all his sanctity,” argued the witch. “I mean, he is a man of wide sympathies. Both he and Miss Charlotte are not ashamed of bringing me nourishing foods. We must take people as we find them, Master.”
“Bah!” exclaimed Syn scornfully. “Good people are my enemies, but I own they have their uses, even to me. Encourage them to visit you, for it will be for your own safety and the safety of my horse if people see them visit you. And I have no blame for you liking them. Were Dr. Syn less full of sanctity I would embrace him gladly as my servant. He is too good to tempt. Are they your only visitors?”
“I see very few, Master,” went on the old woman. “No one else comes near me, and I never speak to anyone unless I have to buy something at the shops, which is seldom.”
“And that suits my purpose well,” went on Syn. “Discourage visitors. Frighten them away. I am glad your acquaintances are so scarce.”
“There is another man who is good to me. I forgot,” added the old woman. “He also is good to all the poor and is loved by them, although he is accounted a wicked man with a price on his head. I speak of Jimmie Bone, the highwayman. When the chase is hot I harbour him.”
“Well that, too, is good,” continued Syn, “for he is a fellow that I may yet have use for, and this would be a convenient meeting place. See to it, though, that none of these visitors sets eyes on my horse.”
“What must I call the horse, Master? Does he answer to a name?”
“He is called Gehenna, and he is wild and fierce. If you so much as lay hands on him, he'll send you to hell before your time.”
“He will be groomed very well without your help. You have but to see that his manger is well supplied.”
All this time the horse had been standing stock still as though wondering what manner of man this was upon his back, and just how he could succeed in throwing him. The rider had won the first round in that he had brought him to rest at the hovel. Suddenly he plunged and reared, but Dr. Syn swung him round and gave him both spurs. The horse leapt forward and feeling the spurs drive into him relentlessly, galloped away into the rushing mists.
Meanwhile Mother Handaway barred her door and emptying the bag of guineas upon the old table she fell to counting them, and then she tried each coin separately and found that although minted in Hell, they all rang true.
The storm now took a curious turn. The wind increased till it became a gale and before its fury the mist shrouds leapt as though the Marsh were invaded by sheeted giants. Then a stinging sleet shattered down in a torrential burst. The frozen shafts of rain stung the horse into madness, and Dr. Syn used the cruel elements to subdue the vice in the horse. He kept the animal facing the storm till he had mastered his spirit then at last, when he turned his back to the storm, he knew that the animal was his. The spirit was still there, the high fierce mettle, but the viciousness had gone as far as he was concerned. Then Syn drove the spurs in again and rode like the wind and with the wind towards the distant sea-wall. The pursuing sleet gave the horse pace and in company with the whirling shapes of flying mist, the black animal galloped with the weird black figure of the Scarecrow on his back.
And the thrill of it went to Syn's head like wine and he laughed aloud. “Even the elements are on the devil's side to-night. On, Gehenna. On. Faster, you great brute. Faster. The devil in scarecrow's rags rules the Marsh and he rides to Hell on Gehenna. On. On. Faster.”
