II
He was all in black, and very neat: an Englishman, a gentleman, and a parson, Kit would have sworn.
His back was turned. The boy could see nothing but a black coat, a pair of solid shoulders, and a curly head.
This was not the hymn-singer to be sure. He was otherwise engaged. There was something across his knees, and he was tending to it, and talking as he worked.
From his actions and his words, Kit would have sworn that he was bathing a child. For the man was talking as women talk to babies, and some men to the women they love—that little talk, half tender, half mocking, such nonsense, and so sweet.
Then something flashed and sparkled against the dark of the door; and Kit saw it was no babe that lay across the man's knees, but a naked blade.
He was furbishing it with a chamois leather, and caressing it with words.
Now he lifted the blade on flat hands, and kissed the point reverently.
Then he leaned forward, and peered round the half open door with extraordinary stealth.
Comic as the action was, there was yet something terrible about it.