square tower at the western end reminding me of the
prongs of the "Devil's Tooth."

I entered the churchyard gates. All was silent as death. I had
expected it to be so; no one ever dared to enter there after dark,
unless it was a cluster of worshippers gathered together in church
time. Even this did not happen often, for rarely was an evening
service held there. Like many other country churches in Cornwall, the
time of worship was morning and afternoon. Had I got into the church
in the afternoon I should not have been free from observation, for the
country folk are courageous in the daytime, and often prowl around the
churchyard; but at night I knew if I entered I should be left
unmolested.

Slowly I wended my way down the churchyard path. I began to realise
now what I was going to do, and for the first time the thought struck
terror. Yet did I not hesitate in my purpose. I remembered every
superstitious association of my early childhood. Stories of the
troubled dead roaming around their graves came back to my mind. I saw
the grey tombstones grim and lonely, as if inviting those in whose
memory they were erected to bear them company through the silent night.

A lonely churchyard is an awful place, and this one seemed more awful
than others to me, who was about to visit the dead!

How plainly my footsteps sounded as I went down the gravelled footpath.
I felt as though I were disturbing the dead in their graves.

What was that dark grey form moving among the tombstones? Was it the
village witch gathering the nettles that grew on the suicide's grave,
in order to work her mystic spells and secret charms? Was that sound I
heard her dark laughter, as she plucked the mugwort of evil repute?

No; it was only my excited imagination conjuring up dread objects and
noises.

I stood at the door of the belfry tower. It was grey, and iron
studded. Should I enter this way? No; my passage among the bell-ropes
might set the bells jangling in ghastly discord, and quickly I hurried
to the church porch.

I stood and listened; but could hear no sound. The stone seats around
the porch looked very cold, and the parish notices that were pasted
around its walls looked to me like the letters of departed spirits.

I lit the candle in my lantern, and fumbled among the keys, my hands
trembling as I did so. I found the right key at length, and placed it
in the door. I tried to turn it, but it would not move. I pushed it