“Ye see, Peter, I tried so ’ard to kill ‘ee, an’ you said yourself as I come nigh doin’ it—­”

“But then, you didn’t quite manage it,” I cried harshly—­“would to God you had; as it is, I am alive, and there’s an end of it.”

“’Twere a woundy blow I give ’ee—­that last one!  I’ll never forget the look o’ your face as you went down.  Oh, Peter! you’ve never been the same since—­it be all my doin’—­I know it, I know it,” and, sinking upon the Ancient’s stool in the corner, Black George covered his face.

“Never think of it, George,” I said, laying my arm across his heaving shoulders; “that is all over and done with, dear fellow, and I would not have it otherwise, since it gained me your friendship.  I am all right, well and strong; it is only sleep that I need, George, only sleep.”

Upon the still evening air rose the sharp tap, tap of the Ancient’s stick, whereat up started the smith, and, coming to the forge, began raking out the fire with great dust and clatter, as the old man hobbled up, saluting us cheerily as he came.

“Lord!” he exclaimed, pausing in the doorway to lean upon his stick and glance from one to the other of us with his quick, bright eyes.  “Lord! theer bean’t two other such fine, up-standin’, likely-lookin’ chaps in all the South Country as you two chaps be—­no, nor such smiths! it du warm my old ’eart to look at ‘ee.  Puts me in mind o’ what I were myself—­ages an’ ages ago.  I weren’t quite so tall as Jarge, p’r’aps, by about—­say ’alf-a-inch, but then, I were wider—­wider, ah! a sight wider in the shoulder, an’ so strong as—­four bulls! an’ wi’ eyes big an’ sharp an’ piercin’—­like Peter’s, only Peter’s bean’t quite so sharp, no, nor yet so piercin’—­an’ that minds me as I’ve got noos for ’ee, Peter.”

“What news?” said I, turning.

“S’prisin’ noos it be—­ah! an’ ‘stonishin’ tu.  But first of all, Peter, I wants to ax ’ee a question.”

“What is it, Ancient?”

“Why, it be this, Peter,” said the old man, hobbling nearer, and peering up into my face, “ever since the time as I went an’ found ye, I’ve thought as theer was summ’at strange about ‘ee, what wi’ your soft voice an’ gentle ways; an’ it came on me all at once —­about three o’ the clock’s arternoon, as you might be a dook —­in disguise, Peter.  Come now, be ye a dook or bean’t ye—­yes or ne, Peter?” and he fixed me with his eye.

“No, Ancient,” I answered, smiling; “I’m no duke.”

“Ah well!—­a earl, then?”

“Nor an earl.”

“A barrynet, p’r’aps?”

“Not even a baronet.”

“Ah!” said the old man, eyeing me doubtfully, “I’ve often thought as you might be one or t’ other of ’em ’specially since ’bout three o’ the clock ’s arternoon.”

“Why so?”