But I never seemed to find what he was sending me in search of; for that there was something hidden on that coast for which he was hunting I soon began to realize. The night was almost as wonderful as the day. For first came my lesson in fighting with the knife, a time of glorious excitement. In our combats we used folded lengths of paper so that we could fight with vigour but without danger of accidents. What added zest to the game was that my father had promised me a shiny new knife of my own when I had succeeded in hitting him three times over the heart. I remember my dancing exultancy when I scored my first success, but after that he became more cautious, and the second blow was more difficult of attainment. And then when we had finished our combat came the hour of the evening story. The days at the Dolphin Inn were never long enough for me, and the only time, I think, when I really felt resentment against my father was when he announced that we must be away again. I could see no reason for it. I had begun to understand that once--and long enough ago it seemed to me now--my father had been pursued by some strange and relentless enemy; but, I reasoned, wasn't that enemy safely dead? The only answer that I received from my father when I put the question to him was the somewhat enigmatic, "Ghosts, Tommy." "Ghosts?" I said inquiringly. "Sometimes the dead will rise," he announced in his hushed, mysterious voice, "and sometimes," he added, "the dead will leave the living behind them." All I could gather was that he was vaguely uneasy that the pursuer was still on his track, though there had been no whisper of it for several years. For once after a long reverie he suddenly roused himself, and looking keenly at me said, "Tommy, was he lying still?" I didn't understand; and repeated, "Still, daddy?" He laughed a little, realizing the incomprehensibility of his question; and taking me by the shoulders he said slowly, "Now think, Tommy. When we left him in the hut, was he lying still?" "He?" I said. "You mean she, daddy?" "Ah, she," he laughed, "the old witch, Bite-in-the-Dark." Now the picture was very clear in my mind that the old crone was not lying still as we broke away from the blaze; and as my father asked me the question I could see her, with infinite pain, slowly dragging herself along the floor. My imagination, alarmed probably by the intensity of my father's eagerness, must have exaggerated the impression, for I could almost picture her crawling from the door. But all I said was, "No, daddy; I saw her move." "Ha!" he exclaimed, turning away; and then swinging round added impressively, "Tommy, always make sure." "But, daddy," I cried, "is she still alive? Will she find us?" "No, no, Tommy," he answered easily, patting my head, "she can't be alive. But," he added, "I haven't seen her ghost."