trumpet-sling by a curious barrel-shaped padlock, and paused to
examine this. The body of the lock was composed of half a dozen
brass rings, set accurately edge to edge; and, rubbing the brass with
my thumb, I saw that each of the six had a series of letters engraved
around it.

I knew the trick of it, I thought. Here was one of those
word-padlocks, once so common; only to be opened by getting the rings
to spell a certain word, which the dealer confides to you.

My host shut and barred the door, and came back to the hearth.

"'Twas just such a wind--east by south--that brought in what you've
got between your hands. Back in the year 'nine it was; my father has
told me the tale a score o' times. You're twisting round the rings,
I see. But you'll never guess the word. Parson Kendall, he made the
word, and locked down a couple o' ghosts in their graves with it; and
when his time came, he went to his own grave and took the word with
him."

"Whose ghosts, Matthew?"

"You want the story, I see, sir. My father could tell it better than
I can. He was a young man in the year 'nine, unmarried at the time,
and living in this very cottage just as I be. That's how he came to
get mixed up with the tale."

He took a chair, lit a short pipe, and unfolded the story in a low
musing voice, with his eyes fixed on the dancing violet flames.