The dwarf chuckled contentedly, and went on with his accusing history of my career. I dropped into a moody, vengeful state, and suffered in silence under the merciless lash. At last this remark of his gave me a sudden rouse:
“Two months ago, on a Tuesday, you woke up, away in the night, and fell to thinking, with shame, about a peculiarly mean and pitiful act of yours toward a poor ignorant Indian in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains in the winter of eighteen hundred and—”
“Stop a moment, devil! Stop! Do you mean to tell me that even my very thoughts are not hidden from you?”
“It seems to look like that. Didn't you think the thoughts I have just mentioned?”
“If I didn't, I wish I may never breathe again! Look here, friend—look me in the eye. Who are you?”
“Well, who do you think?”
“I think you are Satan himself. I think you are the devil.”
“No.”
“No? Then who can you be?”
“Would you really like to know?”