"Well, Ancient?"
"Your throat—!"
"Yes—what of it?"
"It—be all marked—scratched it be—tore, as if—as if—claws 'ad been at it, Peter, long—sharp—claws!"
"Is it, Ancient?"
"Peter—oh, Peter!" said he, with a sudden quaver in his voice, "who was it—what was it, Peter?" and he laid a beseeching hand upon mine. "Peter!" His voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and the hand plucked tremulously at my sleeve, while in the wrinkled old face was a look of pitiful entreaty. "Oh, Peter! oh, lad! 'twere Old Nick as done it—'twere the devil as done it, weren't it—? oh! say 'twere the devil, Peter." And, seeing that hoary head all a-twitch with eagerness as he waited my answer, how could I do other than nod?
"Yes, it was the devil, Ancient." The old man subsided into his chair; embracing himself exultantly.
"I knowed it! I knowed it!" he quavered. "'Twere the devil flyin' off wi' Peter,' says I, an' they fules laughed at me, Peter, ay, laughed at me they did, but they won't laugh at the old man no more—not they; old I be, but they won't laugh at me no more, not when they see your face an' I tell 'em." Here he paused to fumble for his snuff-box, and, opening it, held it towards me.
"Tak' a pinch wi' me, Peter."
"No, thank you, Ancient."