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Unformatted text preview: e of the men. " 'Tis a dangerous thing to |ISlin the ruins of that church." "Oh, and why is that?" asked I. " 'Tis St. Ashlar's church, and St. Ashlar is likely to answer your prayer and who knows what will happen!" Both men roared with laughter, slapping their thighs and nodding to one another. "St. Ashlar!" I said. "You said Ashlar!" "Yes, sir," said the other, who had not spoken till now. "Was his shrine in olden times, the most powerful saint of Scotland, and the Presbyterians made it a sin to speak his name. A sin! But the witches always knew it!" Time and space were naught. In the quiet haunted night of the glen, I was remembering: a boy of three, the old witch, the plantation, her tales to me in French. "Called up by accident in the glen ..." I whispered to myself, "Come now my Lasher. Come now my Ashlar. Come now, my Lasher! Come now, my Ashlar!" I began to murmur it, and then to say it aloud, the t...
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This note was uploaded on 02/20/2010 for the course WRITING 220.200 taught by Professor Julie during the Spring '10 term at Johns Hopkins.
- Spring '10