And of whom should I be thinking but of Charmian, and of the dimple in her shoulder?
"'Tis bewitched you be, Peter!" said the old man suddenly, prodding me softly with his stick, "bewitched as ever was," and he chuckled.
"Bewitched!" said I, starting.
"Ah!—theer you stand wi' your 'ammer in your 'and—a-starin' an' a-starin' at nobody, nor nothin'—leastways not as 'uman eye can see, an' a-sighin', an' a-sighin'—"
"Did I indeed sigh, Ancient?"
"Ah—that ye did—like a cow, Peter, or a 'orse 'eavy an' tired like. An' slow you be, an' dreamy—you as was so bright an' spry; theer's some—fools, like Joel Amos, as might think as 'twere the work o' ghostes, or demons, a-castin' their spells on ye, or that some vampire 'ad bit ye in the night, an' sucked your blood as ye lay asleep, but I know different—you 'm just bewitched, Peter!" and he chuckled again.
"Who knows?—perhaps I am, but it will pass, whatever it is, it will pass—"
"Don't ye be too sure o' that—theer's bewitchments an' bewitchments,
Peter."
Hereupon the smithy became full of the merry din of my hammer, and while I worked the Ancient smoked his pipe and watched me, informing me, between whiles, that the Jersey cow was "in calf," that the hops seemed more than usually forward, and that he had waked that morning with a "touch o' the rheumatics," but, otherwise, he was unusually silent; moreover, each time that I happened to glance up, it was to find him regarding me with a certain fixity of eye, which at another time would have struck me as portentous.
"Ye be palish this marnin', Peter!" said he, dabbing at me suddenly with his pipe-stem; "shouldn't wonder if you was to tell me as your appetite was bad; come now—ye didn't eat much of a breakfus' this marnin', did ye?"