"You cannot make me other than the son of my father," said the reeve, with a smile.
"Well, Master Potts," interposed Nicholas, laughing, "I see no reason why you should be ashamed of your brother. There is a strong family likeness between you. So old Peter Potts, the draper of Chester, was your father, eh? I was not aware of the circumstance before—ha, ha!"
"And, but for this intrusive fellow, you would never have become aware of it," muttered the attorney. "Give ear to me, squire," he said, urging Flint close up to the other's side, and speaking in a low tone, "I do not like the fellow's looks at all."
"I am surprised at that," rejoined the squire, "for he exactly resembles you."
"That is why I do not like him," said Potts; "I believe him to be a wizard."
"You are no wizard to think so," rejoined the squire. And he rode on to join Roger Nowell, who was a little in advance.
"I will try him on the subject of witchcraft," thought Potts. "As you dwell in the forest," he said to the reeve, "you have no doubt seen those two terrible beings, Mothers Demdike and Chattox."
"Frequently," replied the reeve, "but I would rather not talk about them in their own territories. You may judge of their power by the appearance of the village you have just quitted. The inhabitants of that unlucky place refused them their customary tributes, and have therefore incurred their resentment. You will meet other instances of the like kind before you have gone far."
"I am glad of it, for I want to collect as many cases as I can of witchcraft," observed Potts.
"They will be of little use to you," observed the reeve.