It was very near，but not yet in sight; when，in addition to the tramp，tramp，I heard a rush under the hedge，and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog，whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie"s Gytrash- a lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head:

it passed me，however，quietly enough; not staying to look up，with strange pretercanine eyes，in my face，as I half expected it would.

The horse followed,- a tall steed，and on its back a rider. The man，the human being，broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and goblins，to my notions，though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of beasts，could scarce covet shelter in the monplace human form. No Gytrash was this,- only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He passed，and I went on; a few steps，and I turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of "What the deuce is to do now?" and a clattering tumble，arrested my attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back，and seeing his master in a predicament，and hearing the horse groan，barked till the evening hills echoed the sound，which was deep in proportion to his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group，and then he ran up to me; it was all he could do,- there was no other help at hand to summon. I obeyed him，and walked down to the traveller，by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous，I thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question-

"Are you injured，sir?"