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tion, the poſtilion ſtopped the horſes, muttered ſomewhat between his teeth, and then went on again—then ſtopped—and ſo ſeveral times. John, who had now ſhut his eyes faſt for fear, omened nothing good from theſe manœuvres: peeping up cautiouſly he ſaw, to his utter confuſion, ſtalking on about a ſtone’s throw before the coach, a jet-black figure, of a ſize exceeding that of man, crowned with a broad Spaniſh tippet; but what was the moſt ſuſpicious circumſtance in its whole appearance, was its being without an head. If the coach halted, the figure alſo halted; and when the poſtilion drove on, it proceeded alſo.—‘Meſſmate, doſt thou ſee any thing?’ cried the cow-hearted pilot from the coach-box, in a faultering voice and up-ſtanding hair. ‘I do, indeed, ſee ſomething,’ anſwered the other in a low tone; ‘but huſh, hold your tongue, I am ſadly afraid we ſhall miſs our way.’ John fortified himſelf with all the prayers he knew againſt evil ſpirits: with a long