Our witch, who had good sight, saw that the enemy broomstick was upper-most, and that the writhing Harold was being shaken like a mouse.

Their bristles were interlocked.

One twig floated down between the witches, and our witch recognised it as coming from her poor Harold's mane.

As, for this purpose, she brought her eyes to her immediate surroundings, it seemed to her suddenly that the sky was growing larger, and then she realised that this was because their refuge was growing smaller.

The edges of the cloud were dissolving.