I planted the chair invitingly on the broad hearth, where a little fire had been kindled that afternoon to dissipate the dampness, not the cold; for it was early in the month of September.
But without heeding my solicitation, and still standing in the middle of the floor, the stranger gazed at me portentously and spoke.
“Sir,” said he, “excuse me; but instead of my accepting your invitation to be seated on the hearth there, I solemnly warn you, that you had best accept mine, and stand with me in the middle of the room. Good heavens!” he cried, starting—“there is another of those awful crashes. I warn you, sir, quit the hearth.”
“Mr. Jupiter Tonans,” said I, quietly rolling my body on the stone, “I stand very well here.”
“Are you so horridly ignorant, then,” he cried, “as not to know, that by far the most dangerous part of a house, during such a terrific tempest as this, is the fire-place?”
“Nay, I did not know that,” involuntarily stepping upon the first board next to the stone.
The stranger now assumed such an unpleasant air of successful admonition, that—quite involuntarily again—I stepped back upon the hearth, and threw myself into the erectest, proudest posture I could command. But I said nothing.
“For Heaven’s sake,” he cried, with a strange mixture of alarm and intimidation—“for Heaven’s sake, get off the hearth! Know you not, that the heated air and soot are conductors;—to say nothing of those immense iron fire-dogs? Quit the spot—I conjure—I command you.”
“Mr. Jupiter Tonans, I am not accustomed to be commanded in my own house.”
“Call me not by that pagan name. You are profane in this time of terror.”