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Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. It was precisely two o'clock on the morning of Whit-monday, the 25th of May 1724, when the remarkable escape before detailed was completed: and, though it wanted full two hours to daybreak, the glimmer of a waning moon prevented it from being totally dark. “I thought that I heard a groan,” Anna whispered. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. “Forgive you, indeed. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull.
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