“And you will never, never, never burn pigs any more?” said Bertie, searching his face with his own serious large eyes.
“I’ll ne’er brand this un,” said the man, with a shamefaced laugh. “Lord, little sir, you’re the first is ever got as much as that out of me!”
“But you never must do it,” said Bertie, solemnly. “It is wicked of you, and God is angry; and it is very mean for you, such a big man and so strong, to hurt a defenceless dumb thing. You must never do it.”
“What is your name, little master?” said the big man, humbly.
“They call me Avillion.”
“William? Then I’ll say William all the days of my life at my prayers o’ Sundays,” said the man, with some emotion, and murmured to himself, “Such a game un I never seed.”
“Thanks very much,” said Bertie, gently, and then he lifted his hat politely, and went out of the shed before the man could recover from his astonishment. When the little Earl looked back, he saw the giant pouring water on the fire, and the pig was loose.
“I was afraid,” thought Bertie. “But he should have burnt me all up every bit: I never would have given in.”
And something seemed to say in his ear, “The loveliest thing in all the world is courage that goes hand in hand with mercy; and these two together can work miracles, like magicians.”