“Hush, hush, man.  Our servants are all in terror.  They say that Ady is right, for that they have seen him in about the skirts of Balgay woods, and down in the hollow of the ravine, moving about like a spirit of darkness, with something white round his head, and a wide cloak wrapped about him.”

Aminadab had just taken up a large tankard of ale, wherewith he intended to make a clean sweep of his hearty supper down his throat; but he paused, laid down the tankard, turned pale, shook, and looked wistfully into the face of his chieftainess.  Nor did he speak a word, because some idea had probably magnetized his tongue at the wrong end, and the other would not move.

“Ady says, and so do the servants, that he has no shadow; and we should think he shouldn’t, because our ghosts hereaway have none that ever I heard of.  But that’s a lie of their foolish religion; for I could swear I one night saw his shadow flit like that of a sun-dial, when the sun’s in a hurry to get the curtains round his head, away past the east end of the house, and disappear in a moment.  But I’ll tell you what, Aminadab, he may, like our spirits, be a shadow himself.  I could hardly speak for fear, though five minutes before I had as good a tankard of that Logie-brewed as you have before you; but I got my tongue through the ale at the other end o’t, and cried out with Zechariah, wherein I was something like you, Aminadab, ’Ho, ho, come forth, and flee from the land of the north.’”

“That would stump his Dagonship,” said Aminadab, with an effort to be cheerful in spite of the foresaid idea, whatever it was.  “Ay,” he continued, after drinking off the tankard, and getting courage and wit at same time, “a line from the Bible is just like a rifle-shot in the hinder-end of these false gods.  They can’t stand it nohow.”

“And you’ve stumpt me,” replied the cook, “with the chopping-knife of your folly, so that I don’t know where to find my legs again.  It was a year after he came to Logie before another half-and-half was born—­a boy too; and then there came a change over Mr. Fletcher’s mind.  There’s something strange about those English that live long in India.  I’ve noticed it when I was in London, in George’s house; but it’s all from the liver,” continued the cook.  “First grilled upon the ribs, then cooled with champagne, then healed up with curry, chiles, and ginger.  No wonder the devil gets into the kitchen, where a dish like that is waiting him.  Then they’re so proud and selfish, and fond of themselves and their worthless lives.”

“’Skin for skin, yea, all that they have, will they give for their lives.’  So the devil said of him of Uz.”