"But, Ancient, I am not the kind of man women would be attracted by. I love books and solitude, and am called a—pedant! and, besides, I am not of a loving sort—"
"Some men, Peter, falls in love as easy as they falls out; it comes to some soft an' quiet—like the dawn of a summer's day, Peter; but to others it comes like a gert an' tur'ble storm—oh, that it do! Theer's a fire ready to burn up inside o' ye at the touch o' some woman's 'and, or the peep o' 'er eye—ah! a fire as'll burn, an' burn, an' never go out again—not even if you should live to be as old as I be—an' you'll be strong an' wild an' fierce wi' it—an' some day you'll find 'er, Peter, an' she'll find you—"
"And," said I, staring away into the distance, "do you think that, by any possible chance, she might love me, this woman?"
"Ay, for sure," said the Ancient, "for sure she will; why don't 'ee up an ax 'er? Wi' a fine round moon over-'ead, an' a pretty maid at your elber, it's easy enough to tell 'er you love 'er, aren't it?"
"Indeed, yes," said I, beginning to rub my chin, "very easy!" and I sighed.
"An' when you looks into a pair o' sweet eyes, an' sees the shine o' the moon in 'em—why, it aren't so very fur to 'er lips, are it, Peter?
"No," said I, rubbing my chin harder than ever; "no—and there's the danger of it."
"Wheer's t' danger, Peter?"
"Everywhere!" I answered; "in her eyes, in her thick, soft hair, the warmth of her breath, the touch of her hand, the least contact of her garments—her very step!"
"I knowed it!" cried the Ancient joyfully, peering at me under his brows; "I knowed it!"