“To-morrow, friend, it will be too late. Your decision must be now or never. If you desire a merry and a jolly life, having a full pocket and plenty of good ale, sign this bond, which read for yourself.”
Nat took the document from the hand of the stranger, which he carefully read twice over. When completing its second perusal, he remarked that it appeared all right, though not wholly satisfactory as it contained no sentence securing the blessings for which he had to wish during the seven years.
“Will it be satisfactory to you then, friend, if words to that effect are added?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Nat.
The stranger then wrote upon the bond the words Nat desired should be added, and presenting it to the smith, he at once signed the document, when, on its being done, the stranger vanished out of his sight, leaving Nat there in darkness and alone. However, he ultimately found the door of his cottage, and, on entering, went at once to bed.
It was noon on the succeeding morning before Nat awoke. He had, like all beer and spirit drinkers, slept himself sober. When he was aroused from his slumbers, he began to think over the previous night’s scene, and, step by step, he was at last able to trace the whole of his doings from the time he left home until his return, and then he fully realized his present position. The sad fact that he had sold himself body and soul to the arch-fiend was now a terrible reality. “I have been a fool, and no mistake,” said he to himself; “but what’s done can’t be helped. Here is the bond, the conditions of which I’m bound to carry out.” He then got up, and dressed himself, and going downstairs, he found his dinner, which consisted of potatoes and milk, on the table. After partaking of a portion of the dinner his too-indulgent wife had prepared for him, addressing his faithful Betsy he unconsciously exclaimed:
“I wish, old girl, we had fried bacon with the potatoes.”
No sooner had the words escaped his lips than there appeared before him on the little round table a plateful of savoury bacon, on which he was so enraged with his own want of prudence, that he wished it and its contents under the grate, when it was removed thither by some invisible hand. Nat, on witnessing this, foamed with passion, and danced and cursed and swore like one possessed with the evil one. He carried on his ravings for some time to the astonishment of his wife, as she could not divine the cause of his strange conduct; and amid one of his fits of rage he exclaimed, “Oh, that I had a jug of Will’s best beer, for my mouth and my tongue are on fire!” In a moment the foaming ale was placed on the table, and Nat swallowed it at a single draught. When he placed the empty jug on the table, he said, addressing his wife:
“O Betsy! what a fool I’ve been. I was promised riches, possessions, and honours, if I’d do a particular thing, but my only reward is a jug of ale.”
From that day Nat was an altered man. He ceased his visits to the Jolly Fiddler. Occasionally he was to be found in his shop, but more frequently he might be seen walking up and down the mountain-side alone, with an air of pensive sadness on his brow. As years rolled on he became more dejected and depressed in spirits, the cause of which was known to no mortal. He did not even tell his wife the terrible secret of his unhappiness. Years and years passed on with this heavy load on his heart. At last it came to the very day but one when he had to fulfil the condition of the bond. Why or wherefore I do not know, but the thought struck him about me, and thinking, perhaps, that I could afford him some little aid, he started off yesterday morning, and he spent several hours with me here last night. He told me the whole of his tale, and when he had completed its recital, I said to him very kindly, but firmly,—