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Or. Thou runn'st me fast, good Alice. Do not doubt This shall be wanting to us. Ev'ry season Shall have its suited pastime: even Winter In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow, And chok'd up valleys from our mansion bar All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaking, In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire We'll hold our little, snug, domestic court, Plying our work with song and tale between.

Cath. And stories too, I ween, of ghosts and spirits, And things unearthly, that on Michael's eve Rise from the yawning tombs.

Or. Thou thinkest then one night o'th' year is truly More horrid than the rest.

Cath. Perhaps 'tis only silly superstition: But yet it is well known the Count's brave father Would rather on a glacier's point have lain, By angry tempests rock'd, than on that night Sunk in a downy couch in Brunier's castle.

Or. How, pray? What fearful thing did scare him so?

Cath. Hast thou ne'er heard the story of Count Hugo, His ancestor, who slew the hunter-knight?

Or. (eagerly.) Tell it, I pray thee.

Al. Cathrina, tell it not: it is not right: