fate, when suddenly a rustling was heard among the bushes, and a queer-looking soldier with a wooden leg came hopping out from among them.
“Holloa! huntsman,” he began, laughing at the disconsolate-looking William, “what is the matter with you? Are you in love, or is your purse empty, or has any body charmed your gun? Come, don’t look so blank; give me a pipe of tobacco, and we’ll have a chat together.”
William sullenly gave him what he asked, and the soldier threw himself down in the grass by the side of him. The conversation naturally turned upon woodcraft, and William related his misfortunes to him. “Let me see your gun,” said the soldier. William gave it. “It is assuredly bewitched,” said he of the wooden leg, the moment he had taken it in his hand; “you will not be able to fire a single shot with it; and if they have done it according to rule, it will be the same with every gun you shall take into your hands.”
William was startled; he endeavoured to raise objections against the stranger’s belief in witches, but the latter offered to give him a proof of the justice of his opinions. “To us soldiers,” said he, “there is nothing strange; and I could tell
