“Why, bless ye, most noble captain, I’ve put scores and scores of them under the rich, yellow earth. They bring ’em to me—they at the big iron door. This is earth for ye! Look! how the spade sinks into the mould!—He, he, he!”
“What an old devil!” muttered Balvardo to himself. “How canst thou be merry in these gloomy pits! eh, Old One!”
“Merry?—He, he, he! Merry didst say, why bless ye, when I and my comrades gather round our food, I am as merry as is the sound of this spade, driving into the earth! Merry! why I sing, most noble captain, I sing!”
“Thou sing! Ha, ha, ha! Thou, indeed!”
“Why not I, eh? Beshrew me but thou art a fool! I can sing such a right mirthful song—but they never like it—they my comrades!”
“By Saint Peter, I’ll wager a stoup of wine, that thou didst never see the light of day—eh, old rat?”
“Day! what is that?—But for my song—here goes!”
And then busily plying the spade, in a cracked voice he sang the following words, in a sort of wild chaunt, which he occasionally varied by sounds that resembled the yell of a screech-owl.
THE SONG OF THE ANCIENT MAN.[8]
DIG THE GRAVE AND DIG IT DEEP.