The Devil of the Marsh

It was nigh upon dusk when I drew close to the Great Marsh, and
already the white vapours were about, riding across the sunken levels
like ghosts in a churchyard. Though I had set forth in a mood of wild
delight, I had sobered in the lonely ride across the moor and was now
uneasily alert. As my horse jerked down the grassy slopes that fell
away to the jaws of the swamp I could see thin streams of mist rise
slowly, hover like wraiths above the long rushes, and then, turning
gradually more material, go blowing heavily away across the flat. The
appearance of the place at this desolate hour, so remote from human
society and so darkly significant of evil presences, struck me with a
certain wonder that she should have chosen this spot for our meeting.
She was a familiar of the moors, where I had invariably encountered
her; but it was like her arrogant caprice to test my devotion by some
such dreary assignation. The wide and horrid prospect depressed me
beyond reason, but the fact of her neighbourhood drew me on, and my
spirits mounted at the thought that at last she was to put me in
possession of herself. Tethering my horse upon the verge of the swamp,
I soon discovered the path that crossed it, and entering struck out
boldly for the heart. The track could have been little used, for the
reeds, which stood high above the level of my eyes upon either side,
straggled everywhere across in low arches, through which I dodged, and
broke my way with some inconvenience and much impatience. A full half
hour I was solitary in that wilderness, and when at last a sound other
than my own footsteps broke the silence the dusk had fallen.