in fact, a book of magic, written at the dictation, as the preface
stated, of one who had been for seven years a slave among the Romany.

He had been captured, and forced to work for the tent to which his
owners belonged. He had witnessed their worship and their sorceries; he
had seen the sacrifice to the full moon, their chief goddess, and the
wild extravagances with which it was accompanied. He had learnt some few
of their signs, and, upon escaping, had reproduced them from memory.
Some were engraved on the stones set in their rings; some were carved on
wooden tablets, some drawn with ink on parchment; but, with all, their
procedure seemed to be the repetition of certain verses, and then a
steady gaze upon the picture. Presently they became filled with rapture,
uttered what sounded as the wildest ravings, and (their women
especially) prophesied of the future.

A few of the signs he understood the meaning of, but the others he owned
were unknown to him. At the end of the book were several pages of
commentary, describing the demons believed in and worshipped by the
Romany, demons which haunted the woods and hills, and against which it
was best to be provided with amulets blessed by the holy fathers of St.
Augustine. Such demons stole on the hunter at noonday, and, alarmed at
the sudden appearance, upon turning his head (for demons invariably
approach from behind, and their presence is indicated by a shudder in
the back), he toppled into pits hidden by fern, and was killed.

Or, in the shape of a dog, they ran between the traveller's legs; or as
woman, with tempting caresses, lured him from the way at nightfall into
the leafy recesses, and then instantaneously changing into vast bat-like
forms, fastened on his throat and sucked his blood. The terrible screams
of such victims had often been heard by the warders at the outposts.
Some were invisible, and yet slew the unwary by descending unseen upon
him, and choking him with a pressure as if the air had suddenly become
heavy.

But none of these were, perhaps, so much to be dreaded as the
sweetly-formed and graceful ladies of the fern. These were creatures,
not of flesh and blood, and yet not incorporeal like the demons, nor
were they dangerous to the physical man, doing no bodily injury. The
harm they did was by fascinating the soul so that it revolted from all
religion and all the rites of the Church. Once resigned to the caress of
the fern-woman, the unfortunate was lu