"Gi'e us a leet, lass!" called the man, knocking the ashes from his pipe, rising, and taking down a lanthorn.
The good woman lighted the candle for him, and the great Yorkshireman shut the lanthorn door, took up his cap, and said to me—
"Now, if thou'rt boune to come, come on."
I rose and followed him. He led the way, and as we walked towards Arncliffe he told me the following tale:—
"Some hundred years ago there lived a young woman in a cottage near Kettlewell. A strange man came into the neighbourhood, gained her affections, and married her. They settled at the little farm in which my guide now resided. They had not lived a twelvemonth together before the constables entered the house one evening, and took the man up on the charge of bigamy. He had a wife and family living at Bolton, in Lancashire. As they were carrying him off, he broke from them and fled over the moors, and was never retaken. By some it was supposed that he had escaped to America, but by others that he had fallen into one of the pots and had perished. His poor second wife, heart broken, wandered all that night searching for him, and was found dead on the side of Penigent next morning. And they say," added my guide, in a low voice, "that she seeks him still; and when she's gotten him she'll tak' him before the throne of God to be sentenced for having ruined her happiness, and been the cause of her death. That's why he's so flayed (afraid) of meeting wi' she, and sma' blame to him."
"So you think the wretched man perished in one of the pots?"
"I reckon he did. And he'll never have rest till his bones are laid i' t' churchyard, and that'll never be."
"Farmer," said I, after a pause, "have you plenty of rope about your house?"
