"Enough!" said Wirtig, impatiently. "Whence comes the traveller, and whither is he bound?"
Caleb shrugged his shoulders.
"Has he written his name in the strangers' book?"
"He has so, Master Wirtig, after long entreaty; for at first he steadfastly refused. At last he wrote it. 'Let none see this,' he said, 'save your master; and let him be discreet, or—'"
"Glorious!" interrupted Wirtig, and, in the joy of his heart, was near embracing his astonished servant. "I had a presentiment of it, but say—his name?"
Caleb looked embarrassed. "You alone were to see it, Master Wirtig, and I—you know I am not very good at reading writing. I looked into the book, but—"
"How looked the word, fellow?"
"To me it looked a good deal like a blot."
"Now, by St Bennet of Seyton! thou art the dullest knave that ever wore green apron! How many letters?"