Thislaneinclinedup—hillallthewaytoHay;havingreachedthemiddle，Isatdownonastilewhichledthenceintoafield。Gatheringmymantleaboutme，andshelteringmyhandsinmymuff，Ididnotfeelthecold，thoughitfrozekeenly;aswasattestedbyasheetoficecoveringthecauseway，wherealittlebrooklet，nowcongealed，hadoverflowedafterarapidthawsomedayssince。FrommyseatIcouldlookdownonThornfield:thegreyandbattlementedhallwastheprincipalobjectinthevalebelowme;itswoodsanddarkrookeryroseagainstthewest。Ilingeredtillthesunwentdownamongstthetrees，andsankcrimsonandclearbehindthem。Ithenturnedeastward。
Onthehill—topabovemesattherisingmoon;paleyetasacloud，butbrighteningmomentarily，shelookedoverHay，which，halflostintrees，sentupabluesmokefromitsfewchimneys:itwasyetamiledistant，butintheabsolutehushIcouldhearplainlyitsthinmurmursoflife。Myear，too，felttheflowofcurrents;inwhatdalesanddepthsIcouldnottell:butthereweremanyhillsbeyondHay，anddoubtlessmanybecksthreadingtheirpasses。Thateveningcalmbetrayedalikethetinkleoftheneareststreams，thesoughofthemostremote。
Arudenoisebrokeonthesefineripplingsandwhisperings，atoncesofarawayandsoclear:apositivetramp，tramp，ametallicclatter，whicheffacedthesoftwave—wanderings;as，inapicture，thesolidmassofacrag，ortheroughbolesofagreatoak，drawnindarkandstrongontheforeground，effacetheaerialdistanceofazurehill，sunnyhorizon，andblendedcloudswheretintmeltsintotint。
Thedinwasonthecauseway:ahorsewascoming;thewindingsofthelaneyethidit，butitapproached。Iwasjustleavingthestile;yet，asthepathwasnarrow，Isatstilltoletitgoby。InthosedaysIwasyoung，andallsortsoffanciesbrightanddarktenantedmymind:thememoriesofnurserystorieswerethereamongstotherrubbish;andwhentheyrecurred，maturingyouthaddedtothemavigourandvividnessbeyondwhatchildhoodcouldgive。Asthishorseapproached，andasIwatchedforittoappearthroughthedusk，IrememberedcertainofBessie’stales，whereinfiguredaNorth—of—Englandspiritcalleda“Gytrash，”which，intheformofhorse，mule，orlargedog，hauntedsolitaryways，andsometimescameuponbelatedtravellers，asthishorsewasnowcominguponme。
Itwasverynear，butnotyetinsight;when，inadditiontothetramp，tramp，Iheardarushunderthehedge，andclosedownbythehazelstemsglidedagreatdog，whoseblackandwhitecolourmadehimadistinctobjectagainstthetrees。ItwasexactlyoneformofBessie’sGytrash—alion—likecreaturewithlonghairandahugehead:itpassedme，however，quietlyenough;notstayingtolookup，withstrangepretercanineeyes，inmyface，asIhalfexpecteditwould。Thehorsefollowed，—atallsteed，andonitsbackarider。Theman，thehumanbeing，brokethespellatonce。NothingeverrodetheGytrash:itwasalwaysalone;andgoblins，tomynotions，thoughtheymighttenantthedumbcarcassesofbeasts，couldscarcecovetshelterinthecommonplacehumanform。NoGytrashwasthis，—onlyatravellertakingtheshortcuttoMillcote。Hepassed，andIwenton;afewsteps，andIturned:aslidingsoundandanexclamationof“Whatthedeuceistodonow？”andaclatteringtumble，arrestedmyattention。Manandhorseweredown;theyhadslippedonthesheetoficewhichglazedthecauseway。Thedogcameboundingback，andseeinghismasterinapredicament，andhearingthehorsegroan，barkedtilltheeveninghillsechoedthesound，whichwasdeepinproportiontohismagnitude。Hesnuffedroundtheprostrategroup，andthenheranuptome;itwasallhecoulddo，—therewasnootherhelpathandtosummon。Iobeyedhim，andwalkeddowntothetraveller，bythistimestrugglinghimselffreeofhissteed。Hiseffortsweresovigorous，Ithoughthecouldnotbemuchhurt;butIaskedhimthequestion—