“Well,” said Lucy, resuming, “when Christopher had wandered about for a long time he met with a band of knights and their servants, traveling about as they used to do in those days, and at their head there was one all in black armor, with a helmet covering his head and his face.”
“You mean, I suppose,” said Jock, somewhat cynically, “with his visor down.”
“I suppose so,” said Lucy, a little confused, “but you know I am not so clever about these things as you are. I’m afraid you don’t care about my story, Jock.”
“Oh, yes, I care about it; but unless there were enemies about, and he was afraid, he never would have had his visor down; and if he were afraid, Christopher would have known he couldn’t be much; but I like your story all the same,” Jock added, with great politeness; and he liked the rôle of critic, which was novel, too.
“He did not want to show his face,” said Lucy, considerably cowed, “because if people had seen him it would have been known what kind of a being he was, and he looked a very great prince with all his followers round him. So when Christopher heard that this was Satan he went to him and offered his service, and he was one of his soldiers for a long time, I can’t tell how long, but he did not like it at all, Jock, they did so many cruel things. At last one day, one very hot day in summer, they were all marching along, and there were two roads to the place where they were going; one road led through a wood, and that was a pleasant shady way, and the other was the high road, which was dusty and scorching, and not a bit of shelter; and you may suppose how astonished Christopher was when the captain refused to go by the pleasant way, though it was the shortest, too.”
“What was that for?” said Jock, excited mildly by an incident which he had not foreseen.
“He would not tell for a long time; first he said it was one thing and then another, but none of these reasons was the true one. At last Christopher so pressed and pressed that he got into a passion, and it all came out. ‘You great big blundering stupid giant,’ he cried, ‘don’t you know there is a cross in the wood?’ But Christopher did not know what the cross meant; and then the black knight was obliged to tell him that he dared not pass the cross, because of One,” here Lucy’s voice sunk into reverential tones, “who had been crucified upon it, and had won the battle, and had made even that dreadful black spirit, that cruel Satan, tremble and fly.”
Jock was impressed, too, and there was a little pause, and in the ruddy twilight round the fire the two young creatures looked solemnly at each other; and a faint sound, something between a sigh and a sob, came from kind Mrs. Ford, over their heads, who was much touched and weeping-ripe at the turn, to her so unexpected, which the story had taken.
“And what did he do then?” asked Jock, not without awe.
“Oh, Jock! he dashed his great big fist in the black captain’s face, and shouted out, ‘I knew you were a coward, you are so cruel. The Man who hung upon the cross, He is my Master. I will go and seek Him till I die.’”