“I don’t like it,” said the mayor at last, in a husky, high voice.  “I don’t like it!  The scroll says he will come back to St. Gildas when his remains are disturbed.  I—­I don’t like it, Monsieur Darrel—­”

“Bosh!” said I; “the poor wicked devil is where he can’t get out.  For Heaven’s sake, Le Bihan, what is this stuff you are talking in the year of grace 1896?”

The mayor gave me a look.

“And he says ‘Englishman.’  You are an Englishman, Monsieur Darrel,” he announced.

“You know better.  You know I’m an American.”

“It’s all the same,” said the Mayor of St. Gildas, obstinately.

“No, it isn’t!” I answered, much exasperated, and deliberately pushed the skull till it rolled into the bottom of the gravel pit below.

“Cover it up,” said I; “bury the scroll with it too, if you insist, but I think you ought to send it to Paris.  Don’t look so gloomy, Fortin, unless you believe in werewolves and ghosts.  Hey! what the—­what the devil’s the matter with you, anyway?  What are you staring at, Le Bihan?”

“Come, come,” muttered the mayor in a low, tremulous voice, “it’s time we got out of this.  Did you see?  Did you see, Fortin?”

“I saw,” whispered Max Fortin, pallid with fright.

The two men were almost running across the sunny pasture now, and I hastened after them, demanding to know what was the matter.

“Matter!” chattered the mayor, gasping with exasperation and terror.  “The skull is rolling up hill again,” and he burst into a terrified gallop, Max Fortin followed close behind.

I watched them stampeding across the pasture, then turned toward the gravel pit, mystified, incredulous.  The skull was lying on the edge of the pit, exactly where it had been before I pushed it over the edge.  For a second I stared at it; a singular chilly feeling crept up my spinal column, and I turned and walked away, sweat starting from the root of every hair on my head.  Before I had gone twenty paces the absurdity of the whole thing struck me.  I halted, hot with shame and annoyance, and retraced my steps.

There lay the skull.

“I rolled a stone down instead of the skull,” I muttered to myself.  Then with the butt of my gun I pushed the skull over the edge of the pit and watched it roll to the bottom; and as it struck the bottom of the pit, Mome, my dog, suddenly whipped his tail between his legs, whimpered, and made off across the moor.

“Mome!” I shouted, angry and astonished; but the dog only fled the faster, and I ceased calling from sheer surprise.

“What the mischief is the matter with that dog!” I thought.  He had never before played me such a trick.

Mechanically I glanced into the pit, but I could not see the skull.  I looked down.  The skull lay at my feet again, touching them.