Block did not answer, but set three glasses on the table, and then took out from a cupboard a little round long-necked bottle, from which he poured out a glass for Ratsey and himself.  Then he half-filled the third, and pushed it along the table to me, saying, ’There, take it, lad, if thou wilt; ‘twill do thee no good, but may do thee no harm.’

Ratsey raised his glass almost before it was filled.  He sniffed the liquor and smacked his lips.  ‘O rare milk of Ararat!’ he said, ’it is sweet and strong, and sets the heart at ease.  And now get the backgammon-board, John, and set it for us on the table.’  So they fell to the game, and I took a sly sip at the liquor, but nearly choked myself, not being used to strong waters, and finding it heady and burning in the throat.  Neither man spoke, and there was no sound except the constant rattle of the dice, and the rubbing of the pieces being moved across the board.  Now and then one of the players stopped to light his pipe, and at the end of a game they scored their totals on the table with a bit of chalk.  So I watched them for an hour, knowing the game myself, and being interested at seeing Elzevir’s backgammon-board, which I had heard talked of before.

It had formed part of the furniture of the Why Not? for generations of landlords, and served perhaps to pass time for cavaliers of the Civil Wars.  All was of oak, black and polished, board, dice-boxes, and men, but round the edge ran a Latin inscription inlaid in light wood, which I read on that first evening, but did not understand till Mr. Glennie translated it to me.  I had cause to remember it afterwards, so I shall set it down here in Latin for those who know that tongue, Ita in vita ut in lusu alae pessima jactura arte corrigenda est, and in English as Mr. Glennie translated it, As in life, so in a game of hazard, skill will make something of the worst of throws.  At last Elzevir looked up and spoke to me, not unkindly, ’Lad, it is time for you to go home; men say that Blackbeard walks on the first nights of winter, and some have met him face to face betwixt this house and yours.’  I saw he wanted to be rid of me, so bade them both good night, and was off home, running all the way thither, though not from any fear of Blackbeard, for Ratsey had often told me that there was no chance of meeting him unless one passed the churchyard by night.

Blackbeard was one of the Mohunes who had died a century back, and was buried in the vault under the church, with others of his family, but could not rest there, whether, as some said, because he was always looking for a lost treasure, or as others, because of his exceeding wickedness in life.  If this last were the true reason, he must have been bad indeed, for Mohunes have died before and since his day wicked enough to bear anyone company in their vault or elsewhere.  Men would have it that on dark winter nights Blackbeard might be seen with an old-fashioned lanthorn digging