“Did I?”

“Ay, that ye did—­James Dutton see ye, an’ ’is wife, she see ye tu, and I see ye.”

“Then,” said I, “probably I did.  Well?”

“Well,” said the old man, looking round upon his hearers, and bringing out each word with the greatest unction, “that theer evenin’ were last Monday evenin’ as ever was—­the very same hour as Dutton’s pigs sickened an’ died!” Hereupon John Pringle and Job rose simultaneously from where they had been sitting, and retreated precipitately to the door.

“Lord!” exclaimed John.

“I might ha’ knowed it!” said Job, drawing a cross in the air with his finger.

“An’ so James Dutton wants to ax ye to tak’ it off, Peter,” said Old Amos.

“To take what off?”

“Why, the spell, for sure.”  Hereupon I gave free play to my amusement, and laughed, and laughed, while the others watched me with varying expressions.

“And so you think that I bewitched Dutton’s pigs, do you?” said I, at last, glancing from Old Amos to the perspiring Apology (who immediately began to mop at his face and neck again).  “And why,” I continued, seeing that nobody appeared willing to speak, “why should you think it of me?”

“W’y, Peter, ye bean’t like ordinary folk; your eyes goes through an’ through a man.  An’ then, Peter, I mind as you come a-walkin’ into Siss’n’urst one night from Lord knows wheer, all covered wi’ dust, an’ wi’ a pack on your back.”

“You are wrong there, Amos,” said I, “it was afternoon when I came, and the Ancient was with me.”

“Ah! an’ wheer did ‘e find ye, Peter?—­come, speak up an’ tell us.”

“In the Hollow,” I answered.

“Ay, ’e found ‘ee in the very spot wheer the Wanderer o’ the Roads ’ung ‘isself, sixty an’ six years ago.”

“There is nothing very strange in that!” said I.

“What’s more, you come into the village an’ beat Black Jarge throwin’ th’ ‘ammer, an’ ’im the strongest man in all the South Country!”

“I beat him because he did not do his best—­so there is nothing strange in that either.”

“An’ then, you lives all alone in that theer ghashly ‘Oller—­an’ you fights, an’ struggles wi’ devils an’ demons, all in the wind an’ rain an’ tearin’ tempest—­an’ what’s most of all—­you comes back—­alive; an’ what’s more yet, wi’ devil-marks upon ye an’ your throat all tore wi’ claws.  Old Gaffer be over proud o’ findin’ ye, but old Gaffer be dodderin’—­dodderin’ ‘e be, an’ fulish wi’ years; ‘e’d ha’ done much better to ha’ left ye alone —­I’ve heerd o’ folk sellin’ theirselves to the devil afore now, I’ve likewise heerd o’ the ‘Evil Eye’ afore now—­ah! an’ knows one when I sees it.”

“Nonsense!” said I sternly, “nonsense!  This talk of ghosts and devils is sheer folly.  I am a man, like the rest of you, and could not wish you ill—­even if I would come, let us all shake hands, and forget this folly!” and I extended my hand to Old Amos.