Jeremy laid his hands on his breast, as though to ward off something from himself, and went on to make clear to the bystanders the significance of what had happened.
"Long ago the Dark One whispered in his heart, 'Kill her!'" he said, turning to the watchman.
"Ah! Long ago, you say?" said the other importantly.
"Long—long ago! 'She belongs to you,' he said, and that is not true; a horse, that may belong to me, a dog may be mine, but a woman belongs to God. She is one of the children of men. She has received from God in Heaven all her troubles and burdens, and bears them even as we. But the Dark One never ceases to whisper, 'Kill her, she is yours.' He longs that men should strive against God. He himself struggles against God, and he seeks for companions among men."
"But it wasn't the Devil who used the tongs, but the smith," said the policeman, and spat on the ground.
"But who put it into his mind?" cried the old man. "Remember that! who put the thought in his mind?"
"Look here," said the policeman, "what have you to do with the smith? Is he your son?"
"No, No! Indeed."
"But you're related to him, eh?"
"No. I have no relations."