"Fool!" she cried.

"What need of caution?
A witch is a witch, burn her, drown her! There is no other remedy! But two days since, the child of my neighbor Engla passed her on the Fjord; and now the boy has sickened of some strange disease, and 'tis said he will die.

Again, the drove of cattle owned by Hildmar Bjorn were herded home when she passed by.

Now they are seized by the murrain plague! Tell your good saint Dyceworthy these things; if he can find no cure, _I_ can,--and _will_!" Ulrika shuddered slightly as she rose from the ground and stood erect, drawing her shawl closely about her.
"You hate her so much, Lovisa ?" she asked, almost timidly.
Lovisa's face darkened, and her yellow, claw-like hand closed round her strong staff in a cruel and threatening manner.
"Hate her!" she muttered, "I have hated her ever since she was born! I hated her mother before her! A nest of devils, every one of them; and the curse will always be upon us while they dwell here." She paused and looked at Ulrika steadily.
"Remember!" she said, with an evil leer on her lips, "I hold a secret of yours that is worth the keeping! I give you two weeks more; within that time you must act! Destroy the witch,--bring back to me my grandchild Britta, or else--it will be _my_ turn!" And she laughed silently.

Ulrika's face grew paler, and the hand that grasped the folds of her shawl trembled violently.