midnight
I exclaimed . The hills beyond Marsh Glen sent the answer faintly back -- `` Where are you ? '' I listened . The wind sighed low in the firs : all was moorland loneliness and midnight hush . `` Down superstition ! '' I commented , as that spectre rose up black by the black yew at the gate . `` This is not thy deception , nor thy witchcraft : it is the work of nature .