They haunt the fields and the moors, thick as blades of grass or as grains of sand on the shore. They revisit their former habitations in the silence of the night, and from the lis-clos they can be observed crouched around the hearth, where the brands are expiring.’ Certain mysterious rites are observed to which the curé is not invited, and where some old man is ministrant, on All Souls’ even, on some granite-strewn height, about a fire. M. le Curé is discreet enough not to enquire too closely what goes on.
The wagon of the Ankou is like the death-coach that one hears of in Devon and in Wales. It is all black, with black horses drawing it, driven by a headless coachman. A black hound runs before it, and within sits a lady—in the neighbourhood of Okehampton and Tavistock she is supposed to be a certain Lady Howard, but she is assuredly an impersonification of Death, for the coach halts to pick up the spirits of the dying.
Now pray step in! my lady saith;
Now pray step in and ride.
I thank thee, I had rather walk
Than gather to thy side.
The wheels go round without a sound
Or tramp or turn of wheels.
As cloud at night, in pale moonlight,
Along the carriage steals.
