If I was like some I’d say my fire was as far bewitched as Banham’s gal, or else the iron. Can’t make nothen of it; won’t shape, won’t be jown up—obs’nit as a lump o’ stone.”

“‘Tis the witch, depend on’t,” said Roboshobery, with a serious bating of voice. “She do feel the spell a-makin’, an’ puts the trouble on the iron…Sink me, there’s Master Murr’ll hisself!”

Lingood turned his head. The lane ended beside a row of half a dozen wooden cottages, all of Hadleigh village that was not ranged along the Southchurch road. A little old man, in act of opening his door, espied the two, dropped the latch, and came toward them. Lingood moved to meet him, and Roboshobery followed indeterminately, going wide as he went.

The little old man presented the not very common figure of a man small every way proportionately. He was perhaps a trifle less than five feet high, thin and slight, but the smallness of his head and hands somewhat mitigated, at first sight, the appearance of shortness. Quick and alert of movement, keen of eye, and sharp of face. Cunning Murrell made a distinctive figure in that neighbourhood, even physically, and apart from the atmosphere of power and mystery that compassed him about. Now he wore a blue frock coat, a trifle threadbare, though ornamented with brass buttons, and on his head was just such a hard glazed hat as was on Roboshobery Dove’s. Over his shoulder he carried a large gingham umbrella, with thick whalebone ribs, each tipped with a white china knob, and from its handle hung a frail basket. He nodded sharply to Roboshobery, who backed doubtfully, made a feint of pulling at his forelock, jerked out “Good evenin’. Master Murrell, sir, good evenin’,” and took himself off into the dark. For Cunning Murrell was the sole living creature that Roboshobery Dove feared, and it was Roboshobery’s way not only to address the wise man (when he must) with the extremest respect, but to do it from a respectful distance; much as though he suspected him of a very long tail with a sting at the end of it. And he stayed no longer than he could help.

Murrell turned to Lingood. “Job done?” he piped, in a thin but decided voice. “Job done?”

“No,” the smith answered, “tarn’t; an’ not like ‘twill be, seems to me. You’ll hev t’ unbewitch the iron, or the fire, or summat, ‘fore you can get to unbewitchin’ Banham’s gal.”

“Why?”

“Iron won’t weld, nohow. Won’t be jown up. Never met nothen like it; obs’nit as flint.”

“Ah, we mus’ see—we mus’ see. ‘Tis a powerful mighty witch, doubtless.” Murrell said this with a sharp look upward at Lingood, who was suspected of less respect than was common in Hadleigh both for Murrell himself and for his foes, the witches. And the two turned toward the village street.

Murrell stopped at his door and entered, while Lingood waited without. The small room into which the door opened seemed the smaller because of the innumerable bunches of dried and drying herbs which hung everywhere from walls and ceiling. Murrell put down his frail and umbrella, and then, after a few moments’ rummaging, blew out the rushlight, and rejoined Lingood.

“Come,” he said, “try the job again.” And the two turned into Hadleigh street.

The smithy stood a hundred and fifty yards beyond the Castle Inn, and on the other side of the road. All was black within, save where the fire declared its dull red. Lingood groped, and found a lantern, and, after a little trouble, lit the wick of the guttered pile of grease within it; while Murrell, behind him, passed his hand twice or thrice over the hot cinders of the fire, though, indeed, there seemed little reason for any man to warm his fingers on a June evening such as this.

“Do you forge, Stephen Lingood,” he said, with a voice as of one taking command, “an’ I will blow this stubborn fire.”

He seized the lever and tugged, and with the blast the glow arose and spread wide among the cinders. The smith lifted from the floor a clumsy piece of iron, partly worked into the rough semblance of a bottle, and dropped it on the fire.

“Here stand I, an’ blow the fire,” said Murrell, as one announcing himself to invisible powers; “an’ let no witch nor ev’l sparrit meddle.”

Lingood said nothing, but turned the iron in the fire. Slowly it reddened, and then more quickly grew pale and fierce, while Murrell tugged at the bellows. He muttered vehemently as he tugged, and presently grew more and more distinct, till the smith could distinguish his words, howsoever few of them he understood.

“…creepin’ things, an’ man on the Sixth Day…Power over all creatures…An’ by the name of the Angels servin’ in the Third Host before Hagiel a Great Angel an’ strong an’ powerful Prince, an’ by the name of his star which is Venus, and by his seal which is holy;…I conjure upon thee Angel who art the chief ruler of this day that you labour for me!”

Neither surprised nor impressed by this invocation, Lingood seized a hammer, carried the radiant iron to the anvil, and hammered quickly. The mass lapped about the anvil’s horn, met, and joined; and without more words the job was finished. With another heating an end was closed, and with one more the mouth was beaten close about a heavy nut.