On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud，but brightening momentarily，she looked over Hay，which，half lost in trees，sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile distant，but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life. My ear，too，felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay，and doubtless many becks threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of the nearest streams，the sough of the most remote.

A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings，at once so far away and so clear: a positive tramp，tramp，a metallic clatter，which effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as，in a picture，the solid mass of a crag，or the rough boles of a great oak，drawn in dark and strong on the foreground，efface the aerial distance of azure hill，sunny horizon，and blended clouds where tint melts into tint.

The din was on the causeway: a horse was ing; the windings of the lane yet hid it，but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet，as the path was narrow，I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young，and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they recurred，maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what childhood could give. As this horse approached，and as I watched for it to appear through the dusk，I remembered certain of Bessie"s tales，wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a "Gytrash," which，in the form of horse，mule，or large dog，haunted solitary ways，and sometimes came upon belated travellers，as this horse was now ing upon me.