title: The Last Witchfinder: A Novel
author:  James Morrow 
description: &#8220;[An] intrepid, impeccably researched epic . . . [a] tour-de-force of early America.&#8221; (Publishers Weekly <strong>(starred review)</strong>)<br /><br />&#8220;An exceptionally engaging and piquantly thoughtful novel.&#8221; (Library Journal)<br /><br />&#8220;This impeccably researched, highly ambitious novel -- nine years in the writing -- is a triumph of historical fiction.&#8221; (Booklist (starred review))<br /><br />&#8220;Read[s] like a collaboration between Charles Dickens and Henry Fielding...Morrow is long overdue for a mainstream audience.&#8221; (Denver Post)<br /><br />&#8220;A book to delight fans of writers such as John Barth and T.C. Boyle. Or even Jonathan Swift.&#8221; (USA Today)<br /><br />&#8220;[A] richly detailed, cerebral tale of rationality versus superstitious bigotry.&#8221; (Fort Wayne (IN) Journal Gazette)<br /><br />&#8220;Endlessly exciting ... A grand picaresque tour of England and the American colonies ... Watch out for James Morrow: He&#8217;s magic.&#8221; (Washington Post Book World)<br /><br />&#8220;Here are storytelling, showmanship and provocative book-club bait, all rolled into one inventive feat.&#8221; (New York Times)<br /><br />&#8220;Grim and gorgeous, earthy and erudite as well.&#8221; (Seattle Times)<br /><br />&#8220;Morrow seamlessly weaves fantasy with science and historical fact in one of the best novels of the year.&#8221; (Rocky Mountain News)
zlib_text: > ****
  
  > **Web of the Witch World**
  
  >  ****
  
  > **A Witch World Novel by Andre Norton**
  
  Version 1.1
  
    
  
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   **1 GAUNTLET THROWN**
  
  IN THE NIGHT there had been a storm with great gusts of angry wind to batter
  ancient walls, aim spearthrusts of rain at the window slits of the chamber.
  But its violence had been reduced to a sullen mutter outside the South Keep.
  And Simon Tregarth had found that mutter soothing.
  
  No, this was no troubling of nature—the raw nature man must fight and subdue
  for his own survival. It was a very different unease he felt as he lay in the
  early morning, awake and aware as a sentinel listening to sounds beyond his
  post.
  
  Chill sweat gathered in his armpits, beaded dankly on his slightly hollowed
  cheeks and square jaw. Gray light overtook the room shadows, there was no
  sound, but—
  
  His hand went out tentatively before he consciously thought. Nor did he
  entirely realize that he was yielding to an emotion which he sti