piercing scream. In a moment or so the mystery was solved. The old beldam came rushing down the mountain, her thin wisp of gray hair fluttering in the wind. Her hands were tied behind her, and two young peasants with birchen rods were beating her every chance they got.
"Turn back, turn back, brothers," they cried to my two men.
"The little wizard there has struck hands with this old witch. They're on their way to the Giants' Well. They'll loosen a band of black spirits about our ears. We shall all be bewitched. Quick! Quick! Cast off the loads ye're bearing and follow us."
The two men didn't wait for a second bidding, and throwing the tackle on the ground, they all disappeared like a flash, but for several moments I could hear the screams of poor Yuliana as these young wretches beat the old woman with their birchen rods.
Well, dear readers, what say ye to this? Was I not in a pleasant position truly? Alone with Bulger in that wild and gloomy mountain region, the black rocks hanging like frowning giants and ogres over our heads, with the dwarf pines for hair, clumps of white moss for eyes, vast, gaping cracks for mouths, and gnarled and twisted roots for terrible fingers, ready to reach down for my poor little weazen frame.
Did I fall a-trembling? Did I make haste to follow those craven spirits down the mountain side? Did I shift the peg of my courage a single hole lower?
Not I. If I had I wouldn't have been worthy of the name I bore. What I did do was to throw myself at full length on a bed of moss, call Bulger to my side, and close my eyes to the outer world.
I have heard of great men going to bed at high noon to give themselves up to thought, and I had often done it myself before I had heard of their doing it.
In fifteen minutes, by nature's watch—the sun on the face of the mountain—I had solved the problem. Now, there were two difficulties staring me in the face namely, to find some-
