"No, no, Bob," I say; "that pot does not belong to me."
"Nonsense," says Bob; at least he thinks it. "Nonsense, master, all the
world belongs to you if you could only believe it. You're king of the
universe, in my mind at all events."
We sit and look at the pot. There is an old-fashioned wag-at-the-wall
clock, tick-ticking away, but no other sound. After a time the clock
clears its throat, and slowly rasps out the hour of nine, then goes
quietly on tick-ticking again.
A whole hour passes. The clock clears its throat once more and gives
ten wheezy knocks.
Bob suggests supper more emphatically. I am getting very weary.
Those we left behind us must think we are indeed lost, or swallowed up
in a quagmire. The thought makes me very uneasy, and I begin almost to
wish my adventure in the weird forest may be all a dream, that presently
the peat-fire, pot and soup and all may vanish, and I may wake in bed.
But while thus musing I am startled very much indeed, and so too is Bob,
at hearing a cracked and dismal world-old voice close beside me say with
a long-drawn sigh:
"Heigho! I wonder what o'clock it is!"
There is no one in the room, not a soul to be seen.
Next moment, from another direction, but whether above or beneath
I cannot be sure, issues a low, half-demoniacal laugh of
self-satisfaction.
"Ha! ha! ha!"
The great dog starts up. His hair is on end all along his spine. He
growls low and glances fearfully round him as if he expected to see a
spectre.
Again the mournful old-world voice and the long-drawn sigh.
"Heigho! Will he ever, _ever_ come!"
The dog looks in my face with terrible earnestness. He expects me to
explain. I cannot--I feel uneasy. We listen for many minutes, but hear
no more, till the rising wind moans drearily round the house and the
fire gets low on the hearth.
"Ha! ha! ha!" The demon laugh again! It is a kind of half-ironical
chuckle, impossible to describe. Then a voice in pitiful tones of
entreaty:
"_Don't_ do it. Don't _do_ it."
I am really getting frightened. I look towards the door, which had
hitherto been open, and stare to see it slowly shut as if moved by some
spirit hand. The wind howls now like wild wolves outside.
"What is it? What _is_ it? Ha! ha! ha! What _is_ it?"
Then a wild unearthly shriek, and a yell of "Murder!" rises high above
the wind. My nerves are quite unstrung. I verily believe my hair is
moving under my Highland bonnet.