a couple of brass medals the size of a sixpence, a tiny metal cross, and a square sort of scapulary which he wore round his neck.  He hung them on the wall by the side of his bed, and he was still to be heard every evening reciting the Lord’s Prayer, in incomprehensible words and in a slow, fervent tone, as he had heard his old father do at the head of all the kneeling family, big and little, on every evening of his life.  And though he wore corduroys at work, and a slop-made pepper-and-salt suit on Sundays, strangers would turn round to look after him on the road.  His foreignness had a peculiar and indelible stamp.  At last people became used to see him.  But they never became used to him.  His rapid, skimming walk; his swarthy complexion; his hat cocked on the left ear; his habit, on warm evenings, of wearing his coat over one shoulder, like a hussar’s dolman; his manner of leaping over the stiles, not as a feat of agility, but in the ordinary course of progression—­all these peculiarities were, as one may say, so many causes of scorn and offence to the inhabitants of the village. They wouldn’t in their dinner hour lie flat on their backs on the grass to stare at the sky.  Neither did they go about the fields screaming dismal tunes.  Many times have I heard his high-pitched voice from behind the ridge of some sloping sheep-walk, a voice light and soaring, like a lark’s, but with a melancholy human note, over our fields that hear only the song of birds.  And I should be startled myself.  Ah!  He was different:  innocent of heart, and full of good will, which nobody wanted, this castaway, that, like a man transplanted into another planet, was separated by an immense space from his past and by an immense ignorance from his future.  His quick, fervent utterance positively shocked everybody.  ‘An excitable devil,’ they called him.  One evening, in the tap-room of the Coach and Horses (having drunk some whisky), he upset them all by singing a love song of his country.  They hooted him down, and he was pained; but Preble, the lame wheelwright, and Vincent, the fat blacksmith, and the other notables too, wanted to drink their evening beer in peace.  On another occasion he tried to show them how to dance.  The dust rose in clouds from the sanded floor; he leaped straight up amongst the deal tables, struck his heels together, squatted on one heel in front of old Preble, shooting out the other leg, uttered wild and exulting cries, jumped up to whirl on one foot, snapping his fingers above his head—­and a strange carter who was having a drink in there began to swear, and cleared out with his half-pint in his hand into the bar.  But when suddenly he sprang upon a table and continued to dance among the glasses, the landlord interfered.  He didn’t want any ‘acrobat tricks in the taproom.’  They laid their hands on him.  Having had a glass or two, Mr. Swaffer’s foreigner tried to expostulate:  was ejected forcibly:  got a black eye.