“Amen, brethren; here I am,” rejoined Euschemon, stepping briskly into the midst of the troop.
“And why in the name of Zernebock should we carry you?” demanded some, while others ran off to lug forth the image, the object of their devotion.
“Why, verily,” Euschemon began, and stopped short. How indeed was he to prove to them that he was Euschemon? His personal resemblance to his effigy, the work of a sculptor of the idealistic school, was in no respect remarkable; and he felt, alas! that he could no more work a miracle than you or I. In the sight of the multitude he was only an elderly sexton with a cast in his eye, with nothing but his office to keep him out of the workhouse. A further and more awkward question arose, how on earth was he to get back to Paradise? The ordinary method was not available, for he had already been dead for several centuries; and no other presented itself to his imagination.
Muttering apologies, and glad to be overlooked, Euschemon shrank into a corner, but slightly comforted by the honours his image was receiving at the hands of the good people of Epinal. As time wore on he became pensive and restless, and nothing pleased him so well as to ascend to the belfry on moonlight nights, scribbling disparagement on the bells of Eulogius and Eucherius, which had ceased to be rung, and patting and caressing his own, which now did duty for all three. With alarm he noticed one night an incipient crack, which threatened to become a serious flaw.
“If this goes on,” said a voice behind him, “I shall get a holiday.”
Euschemon turned round, and with indescribable dismay perceived a gigantic demon, negligently resting his hand on the top of the bell, and looking as if it would cost him nothing to pitch it and Euschemon together to the other side of the town.
“Avaunt, fiend,” he stammered, with as much dignity as he could muster, “or at least remove thy unhallowed paw from my bell.”
“Come, Eusky,” replied the fiend, with profane familiarity, “don’t be a fool. You are not really such an ass as to imagine that your virtue has anything to do with the virtue of this bell?”
“Whose virtue then?” demanded Euschemon.
“Why truly,” said the demon, “mine! When this bell was cast I was imprisoned in it by a potent enchanter, and so long as I am in it no storm can come within sound of its ringing. I am not allowed to quit it except by night, and then no further than an arm’s length: this, however, I take the liberty of measuring by my own arm, which happens to be a long one. This must continue, as I learn, until I receive a kiss from some bishop of distinguished sanctity. Thou hast done some bishoping in thy time, peradventure?”