And I had seen it, too, many a time, when the horses were brought up in the spring from pasture, their manes twisted and knotted into loops, as though to furnish a hand-holt to a rider.
"Well, Abner," continued the old man in his rustling whisper, "who rides the horse? You cannot untie or untwist those hand-holts—you must cut them out with shears—with iron. Is it true?"
"It is true," replied my uncle.
"And why, eh, Abner? Because those hand-holts were never knotted in by any human fingers! You know what the old folk say?"
"I know," answered my uncle. "Do you believe it, Betts?"
"Eh, Abner!" he croaked in the guttural whisper. "If there were no witches, why did our fathers hang up iron to keep them off? My grandmother saw one burned in the old country. She had ridden the king's horse, and greased her hands with shoemakers' wax so her fingers would not slip in the mane. . . . Shoemakers' wax! Mark you that, Abner!"
"Betts," cried Randolph, "you are a fool; there are no witches!"
"There was the Witch of Endor," replied my uncle. "Go on, Betts."
"By gad, sir!" roared Randolph, "if we are to try witches, I shall have to read up James the First. That Scotch king wrote a learned work on demonology. He advised the magistrates to search
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