The crescent moon hung in a pale clear sky
over the mountain tops when Ishmael reached
the inn. Greta stood at the door, or he would
have passed it—weary, eager, planless. But her
voice of alarmed surprise drew him aside.

"My father is gone!" he said, "and I must
find him or I die. I heard his cry in the storm."

"And may I never open my mouth again,"
said Martin the Farrier, who alone of the guests
remained in the inn parlour—"may I never open
my mouth again to take in this good liquor, if I
did not see him open his mouth and see his beard
shake in the wind. Hath he not curly white
hair and a long grey beard—?"

"His hair truly is whiter than his beard,"
said Ishmael, eagerly.

"Wreaths of mist, eh, mistress?" said the
triumphant Martin to the landlady. "Grey and
white mist for you; grey and white hair for me.
I tell you I saw his mouth open, and it was no
black bit of cloud, but a dark hand seizing the
beard, down yonder by the waterfall."

"Greta! Greta! do not hold me thus by the
neck!"

The youth was gone, and madly breaking his
way down into the gorge where none dared follow.
The dark night soon closed over him, but in the
inn there was the sound of Greta weeping and
the mother's gentle coo of comfort over her.

Weeks went by and no Ishmael returned.

"There's a pot of money left up at the Peak,
I'll be bound," said Christopher, sometimes.
While other guests of the inn talked about that,
Doctor Martin held his peace and made gulps
in his throat, that caught the landlady's attention.

"Husband," she said, at last, after a day's
work, "if the farrier dared he would go up to
the Death's Head one night, and look for Kerli's
money-pot. If there be treasure there it will
be lifted ere long, and it behoves us to take care
of it for the lad Ishmael's sake. He will come
back if he live, for is not Greta here? And if the
old man be dead, his wealth is Ishmael's
inheritance."

"Ah, there's a pot of money, I'll be bound,"
said Christopher.

"Shall we lift it, and bring it hither, now
tonight?" asked the dame. "Martin has brought
a new lantern from town, and has had a thick
bit of candle blessed by the priest to-day. I do
misdoubt him."

"We could guard it here for the lad and his
father, while we kept our secret," said
Christopher. "But if what you say be true, we
should meet Martin on the hill."

"Good so," said the landlady. "He is a man
of faint heart, and I plucked three grey geese
yesterday. We can put our heads through sacks,
and make them terrible with feathers. Here is
the red wool, too, that has been dyed for winter
spinning. Let us hope we may meet neighbour
Martin, and cure him of night wandering upon
the Death's Head Mountain."

"But if we meet a worse than Martin—"

"Giant Glum, himself? Good man, I don't
believe in him, neither do you. Greta's abed
and asleep. She will lie quiet till dawn. Whist!
Fetch me quietly two sacks and lanterns from
the stable."

Master and mistress of The Heart's Content
were fearless mountaineers. They had good
consciences and weak imaginations, that defied
all princes and subjects of the powers of
darkness. Martin the Farrier had a worse
conscience and a livelier fancy. He was on the
mountain with his holy candle. Christopher
and his wife had not climbed far before they saw
his light flitting through the oak wood. "Let
us face him," they said, "before he gets upon
the open bog, or he may see us climbing on."
Martin was working his way up in solemn
silence, when a horrible yell broke from the
brushwood before him, and a feathered monster
streaming blood at many pores was visible by a
light from below, as well as by a light from his
own lantern. Close at his side the yell was
replied to by a piercing scream. Light shone
from behind an oak stem. A dreadful figure
behind him thrust a cold claw on the nape of
his neck. In desperate fear he clapped his
hands on his neck as he turned and fled, tearing
the demon's claw away with him.

"Dear heart," said the dame to Christopher,
"that is unlucky. What'll he think when he
sees it's but a goose's foot?"

"That the foul fiend has something of a goose
about him. Come along, wife."

Christopher and his wife climbed on, while
Martin rushed back, claw in hand. Here were
terrors! Here were triumphs! Here was
news! Here was an urgent need of brandy
that would justify the rousing of a thousand
inns! In another hour he was hammering at
the door of The Heart's Content, and, wakening
Greta, called up to her that there was need of
brandy for a person in extremity, who, he
explained, when she opened the door, was himself.
As maid of her mother's inn, Greta was always
foremost in receipt of custom.

"Here," said the farrier— "here's a tussle.
I've had with the Prince of Darkness. But I
was the better wrestler. See his claw that I
tore from him! Where's Christopher? Call
Christopher!"

"Hush! Father works hard, and your knocking
has not roused him. Here's the brandy,
Martin. Drink it and go. To-morrow you can
tell us all about the fiend."

Martin drank his glass of brandy, but did not go.

"You see I was on the Death's Head Mountain
just now——"

"Ah!"

"The bad spirits came round me in a ring,
hand joined to hand. I flew at the biggest,
and when he said he would rather lose his claw
than break the circle, for he'd got me now, see
what came of his boasting!" Martin flourished
the goose-claw before Greta's eyes.

"Why," she said, " that's——Wait a minute."

Greta had been alarmed at the silence in her
mother's room. She knew a goose claw when
she saw it, and suspected strongly the claw of
one of her own geese that she had plucked and
trussed but yesterday. She ran up to her m