“Where is the ink?”
“In your veins; prick them with a needle, or be a coward. Blood is the challenge to deadly combat.”
“Do all other inks freeze in your country?” again inquired Jeremiah, and again he received no answer.
Gideon did as he was directed, and wrote his name on the parchment. He observed that the blood dried as soon as it fell from the pen, and became indelible.
“Fool! fool!” exclaimed the fiend, with a loud shriek of joy, “thou art for ever lost. This is a contract that you will be my servant in hell. Two conditions are granted to you; or, rather, two deeds to which you may command me. Next night we meet again, and when morning comes, you are mine. Live a pleasant day to morrow. Ask two things, and here I have pledged to grant them, or you are free. The parchment may not be wiped, and cannot be torn!”
This was spoken in a tone so fiendish and exulting, that Gideon’s heart failed him. He now knew that he was altogether in the power of the enemy, with only one day to live; and then a horrible departure from this world; and in the next world such a revolting service in which he was to be employed. He bent down on his knees, and clasping his hands in extreme agony and terror, looked imploringly upon the fiend, and cried out—
“Oh! spare me! I can be of no use to you.”
“More,” was the reply, “than you are to any one on earth. Ah! Gideon, you’ll make a good member of society there.”
“Nay, nay,” returned Gideon, “I may lie in a hot and black corner of the pit, like an old woman by the fire, who cannot move about. I shall do nothing but retch, and cry for water. I could not go on any errand of yours—could not whisper mischief in any person’s ear. You might torment me, but I should be utterly unable to serve you. Oh! spare me!”
“Spare him,” began Jeremiah with averted face. “Had he been a ruffian, he would have been of essential service in any vacant situation. But, sir, and I speak with great respect, Gideon would be the laziest footman in your employ. He could not travel from your place to Ormskirk in less than a life-time. And then he would have forgot your messages, and lost your letters, unless they were put in his nightcap, and that, you know well, could not hold as many as you require. Gideon Chiselwig an imp of darkness! why a little infant could cheat him of an apple! Perhaps he would then be fonder of a snow ball. Ah! he is too simple to be a man, and how could he be a devil?”