“I promised Clem Sanders I wouldn’t tell,” he said desperately. “Waal, Jubal, I’ll gin ye ter onderstand ez this ain’t no matter fur ye an’ Clem Sanders ter keep ter yerse’fs,” said the old man severely. “I war gin ter view the Enemy in that thar forge, an’ ef ennythin’ hev kem o’ sech I hev got the right ter know it.” This logic freed Jube’s conscience, and absolved him, as it were, from his broken promise. “He hev been thar agin!” The stick fell from Parson Donnard’s grasp, and rolled noisily along the puncheon floor. “Who?” he gasped, with trembling lips and starting eyes, expectant of the answer that came suppressed— “Satan!” Parson Donnard sat as one petrified. “He kem thar,” said Jube, with lowered voice and many furtive glances toward those glooming woods, “one night whenst Clem didn’t know nuthin’ ’bout’n it, bein’ at home an’ asleep; but Dake, he see the forge alight an’ hearn the hammers a-strikin’, an’ he ’lowed ’twar Clem. He tole Clem arterward, an’ it like ter skeered Clem ter death, kase he ’lowed mebbe ’twar that thar _dead Clem Sanders_,—what ye seen lookin’ through the winder at him whenst he played kyerds,—a-hammerin’, with the devil a-strikin’ fur him!” “My stars!” exclaimed the trembling parson. “Yes, sir!” said Jube, flattered by the extreme interest with which his narrative was received, its intensity being altogether unexpected. “Yes, sir, Clem ’lowed ez ’twar Satan ez mus’ do the strikin’, an’ not the smith work; kase Clem ’lows ez sech takes a heap o’ ’speriunce, an’ dealin’ in metals air a mighty partic’lar business, an’ Satan air a heap too smart ez ter ’low he kin do reg’lar smith work ’thout he hed a power o’ teachin’. Strikin’ air all Satan would be ekal ter round a forge, Clem say. Waal, sir, two or three nights arterward Clem hears suthin’, an’ looks out’n the roof-room winder; an’ thar he see the forge lit up an’ hearn the hand-hammer an’ the sledge, clink-clank, clink-clank, jes’ ez nat’ral! Clem ’lowed it made him feel powerful bad ter hev his harnt a-walkin’ ’bout his own forge ’fore he air dead; he tuk it fur a sign, an’ it went so ter his heart ez he got off’n his feed fur a few days. But that night, ez he got closer an’ closer ter the forge”— “Did—did Clem go thar?” demanded the old man breathlessly. “_Yes_, sir!” said Jube. He paused to look at the sky, dark and fully instarred now; all its scintillating splendors were suddenly quenched into neutral monotony, while a ghastly quiver of sheet lightning broadly fluctuated through the infinite spaces of the firmament, and over the long, lonely stretches of wood and mountain. Then it died away, leaving the constellations supreme in the night, and the dark stillness brooding in the woods. “He got plumb up ter the winder, sir, ’cordin ter Clem,” Jube continued cautiously. “An’—an’—what did he see?” interrupted the parson.