“I don’t understand you,” said the captain. “Who has come back?”
“The man who wronged her, the man they thought was dead. If they had wanted to keep him dead why did they thrust him up there for all men to see? why did they put him there against the sky to laugh at her and mock her and torture her afresh? Listen, and I’ll tell you something. Just as I watched for her, night after night, through storm and rain and starlight, till she came to me, so I have watched for him, night after night, through storm and rain, till he has come back too. I tell you they can not kill him; he is here to work harm to her still, to wring fresh tears from her. At night, when all men sleep, he comes down and prowls round here searching for her, waiting for her. I’ve seen him.”
The captain shook his hand off half angrily, half fearfully. “What madness is this?” he cried. “The man is dead and can trouble her no more; that is but an image of stone, the work of men’s hands. The man lies in his grave, miles away from here.”
Medmer Theed shook his head obstinately and laughed. “You don’t know,” he said, “you don’t know. My dreams have taught me more than you could learn. Dead or not, I tell you that his spirit has come back, and waits there at night to work fresh evil to her. And that’s where my dreams and my love for her shall help me.”
He laid his hand again on the captain’s arm and drew him into the inner room. A bright fire burned in the little grate, and thrust into the very heart of it was a small crucible; the captain, drawing nearer, saw that the handle of an old-fashioned spoon projected above the edge of it.
“Why, what are you doing?” he asked.
The shoemaker chuckled and softly stirred the fire. “There is but one way to kill a spirit,” he whispered, looking up at his companion. “Lead or iron or steel won’t do; it wants finer stuff. Silver’s the stuff. You are a man of war, and might bring a regiment against him in vain; but this little silver bullet, if it can but reach him, will put an end to his mischief forever. See”—he pulled open a drawer in a little table and took out an old-fashioned, heavy-barrelled pistol and a small instrument, shaped almost like a pair of pincers, for moulding bullets—“I am all prepared. The silver is good, the pistol aims truly. He shall not trouble her any more.”
The captain, glancing at him in perplexity, saw in his eyes a madness of determination he had not seen in any face before; he understood that whatever wild thought was in the old man’s brain it would be useless to attempt to combat it. After lingering for some minutes, during which time the little mass of silver in the bottom of the crucible gradually increased in bulk, he bade the old man good-night, and went out. As he looked back from the doorway he saw the wild old figure still bending over the fire, laughing softly and muttering incoherent things.