chases the yelping of his hounds may be heard. He hunts human souls. Two old ladies who lived at Shaw, near by, assured me they had often heard his horn and the yelping of the pack. A farmer was riding at night over Dartmoor when there came up alongside of him a mysterious hunter with his hounds running before him. The farmer, who had been drinking at the Saracen’s Head Inn at Two Bridges, shouted, ‘Had good luck—much sport? Give me a hare.’ ‘Take it,’ replied the hunter, and flung something to the farmer, who caught it and held it before him to see what had been cast him. Half an hour later he arrived at his house, and shouted for a servant to bring out a lantern and hold his horse. When a man arrived, ‘Give me the lantern,’ said he, ‘and let me see what I have got.’ He was obeyed, and the farmer raising the light saw on his other arm his own child dead. At the same moment it vanished. As in great consternation he was dismounting, the servant said to him: ‘Sorry to have to tell you, farmer, but your poor little boy is dead.’
Children who die unbaptized join the hunt. Once two children were on a moor together; one slept, the other was awake. Suddenly the
