Saying this, Thorkell began to laugh, loudly, frantically, atrociously. Jarvis Kerruish had entered while he was running on with his tirade. The stranger did not lift his eyes to Jarvis, but Jarvis looked at him attentively.
When Thorkell had finished his hideous laugh, he turned to Jarvis and asked if superstition was not the plague of the island, and if it ought not to be put down by law. Jarvis curled his lips for answer, but his form of contempt was lost on old Thorkell's dim eyes.
"Have we not often agreed that it is so?" said Thorkell.
"And that you," said Jarvis, speaking slowly and bitterly, "are the most superstitious man alive."
"What? what?" Thorkell cried.
The stranger lifted his face, and looked steadily into Jarvis's eyes. "You," he said, calmly, "have some reason to say so."
Jarvis reddened, turned about, stepped to the door, glanced back at the stranger, and went out of the room.
Thorkell was now moaning on the pillow. "I am all alone," he said; and he fell to a bout of weeping.
The stranger waited until the hysterical fit was over, and then said, "Where is your daughter?"
"Ah!" said Thorkell, dropping his red eyes.