"Ah!—indeed! I come through this 'ere very arternoon, and uncommon pretty everythin' was lookin', wi' the grass so green, and the trees so—so—" "Shady." "Shady's the word!" nodded the Pedler, glancing up at me through his narrowed eyelids, and chuckling. "A paradise you might call it—ah! a paradise or a—garden of Eden, wi' Eve and the serpent and all!" and he broke out into a cackling laugh. And, in the look and the laugh, indeed about his whole figure, there was something so repellent, so evil, that I was minded to kick and trample him down into the ditch, yet the leering triumph in his eyes held me. "Yes?" said I. "Ye see, bein' by, I 'appened to pass the cottage—and very pretty that looked too, and nice and neat inside!" "Yes?" said I. "And, bein' so near, I 'appened to glance in at the winder, and there, sure enough, I see—'er—as you might say, Eve in the gardin. And a fine figure of a Eve she be, and 'andsome wi' it—'t ain't often as you see a maid the likes o' 'er, so proud and 'aughty like." "Well?" "Well, just as I 'appened to look in at the winder, she 'appened to be standin' wi' an open book in 'er 'and—a old, leather book wi' a broken cover." "Yes?" said I. "And she was a-laughin'—and a pretty, soft, Eve's laugh it were, too." "Yes?" said I. "And—_'e_ were a-lookin' at the book—over 'er shoulder!" The irons slipped from my grasp, and fell with a harsh clang. "Ketches ye, does it?" said the Pedler. I did not speak, but, meeting my eye, he scrambled hastily to his feet, and, catching up his pack, retreated some little way down the road. "Ketches ye, does it, my cove?" he repeated; "turn me away from your door on a cold, dark night, would ye (not as I bears you any ill-will for it, bein' of a forgivin' natur')? But I says to you, I says—look out!—a fine 'andsome lass she be, wi' 'er soft eyes and red lips, and long, white arms—the eyes and lips and arms of a Eve; and Eve tricked Adam, didn't she?—and you ain't a better man nor Adam, are ye?—very well then!" saying which, he spat once more into the ditch, and, shouldering his pack, strode away. And, after some while, I took up my iron bars, and trudged on towards the cottage. As I went, I repeated to myself, over and over again, the word "Liar." Yet my step was very slow and heavy, and my feet dragged in the dust; and, somewhere in my head, a small hammer had begun to beat, soft and slow and regular, but beating, beating upon my brain. Now the upper cover of my Virgil book was broken! CHAPTER XXIV THE VIRGIL BOOK A man was leaning in the shadow of a tree, looking down into the Hollow. I could not see him very distinctly because, though evening had scarcely fallen, the shadows, where he stood, were very dense, but he was gazing down into the Hollow in the attitude of one who waits. For what?—for whom?