The fellow hugged his book the tighter and frowned the darker and fiercely shook his head. "Never," he cried, "was a man assaulted with such diversity of thoughts! Yet here must come a lobcock lapwing and cry 'Good morrow!' I will have you know I am one to bite sooner than to bark."
Already he was striding at a furious gait, yet now, giving a hitch to his mighty book, he made shift to lengthen his stride and go yet faster.
Unhindered by any such load, Phil pressed at his heels.
"'A lobcock'? 'A lapwing'?" he cried. "Thou puddling quacksalver—"
Stopping short and giving him a look of dark resentment, the fellow sadly shook his head. "That was a secret and most venomous blow."
"I gave you good morrow and you returned me nought but ill words."
"The shoe must be made for the foot. I have no desire to go posting about the country with a roystering coxcomb but—well—as I say, I have no liking for thy company, which consorts ill with the pressure of many thoughts; but since you know what you know (and the Devil take him who learned you it!), like it or not, I must even keep thy company with such grace as may be. Yea, though thou clappest hand to thy weapon with such facility that I believe thee sunk to thy neck in the Devil's quagmire, bogged in thy sin, and thy hands red with blood."
With that, he set out again but at an ordinary pace, and Phil, wonderfully perplexed by his words, fell into his step.
Again the fellow shook his head very sadly. "A secret and most venomous blow! Th' art a Devon man?"
"Nay, I never saw Devon."