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,...