“How?” demanded Ben.
“Why, if the tree bleeds it must be a dragon.”
“Bleeds?” echoed Ben, “why, my boy, ain’t you mad? who e’er heard o’ a tree bleedin’?”
“Run sap, I mean.”
“Oh that be hanged, lad! Sure you know that any sort o’ tree ’ll run sap; ’ceptin’ it be a dead ’un.”
“But not red sap!”
“What! you think yon ere tree ’ud run red sap, do ye?”
“I am almost sure of it—red as blood.”
“Well, if it do then I’ll believe ’ee, my lad; but it are precious easy to try. Let’s go up to it, and gie it a prod with the knife, and then we’ll see what sort o’ sap it’s got in its ugly veins—for dang it, it are about the ugliest piece o’ growin’ timber I e’er set eyes on; ne’er a mast nor spar to be had out o’ it, I reckon. It sartinly are ugly enough to make a gallows of. Come on, my lad!”
Ben started forward towards the tree, and I followed him. We did not walk particularly fast, as there was no need to be in a hurry. The tree was not likely to run away from us like the birds and beasts. There were no signs of motion about it; and it would have taken a strong wind to have stirred, either its leaves or branches. It had a look of great firmness, and more resembled cast-iron than a vegetable substance; but as we drew nearer, its forbidding aspect was to some extent relieved by the appearance of its flowers, the strong fragrance of which reached our nostrils from a great distance off.