All at once the old man, quivering on the ledge, started violently, and came near falling into the depths below, rescuing himself only by the strong clutch of his sinewy hands at the jagged rock on which he sat. For a sound had issued into the null silence,—a long, terrible, jarring sound. A wild, fantastic mimicry of a crowing cock, ending in a sonorous wail, profaned the solemn stillness, and was strident in all the echoes. The next moment his angry blood was throbbing in his temples. Jube’s arms were still flapping in his grotesque mockery, and his gay, inadvertent laugh rang out, forgetful of all in the ecstatic opportunity,—of his father, their solemn mission, the purpose of the invaders of the forge, the spiritual enemy; boisterously joying in the sudden exclamation of fear below and the quick retreating footfalls. “Stop! Stop! Who be that down thar?” exclaimed the parson’s authoritative voice. “War ye a-wantin’ ter get in the forge?” A momentary silence below,—seemingly a whisper; then, “Whar’s that thar rooster? Naw; I war jes’ a-goin’ ter turn roun’. I kem down hyar ter inquire arter Eli Strobe, ’lowin’ they’d watch all night, an’ I wouldn’t hev time ter-morrer; but I see the house air dark.” “Who be ye? What’s yer name?” asked the parson. Again a momentary hesitation. Then, “Ain’t that Pa’son Donnard?” The old man writhed under the cumbrous dignity of his identity. How much easier and happier just now to be Jube, burdened with no veneration of the community to live up to! He had never tasted the bitterness of such humility as he experienced now. “I be Pa’son Donnard,” he said as sonorously as he might, “a sarvent of the Lord.” Another vague whisper. Then, aloud, “Laws-a-massy, pa’son, what be ye a-doin’ of up in the mounting in the middle of the night?—nigh day, ef the truth war knowed.” “I kem out,” said the parson slowly, “ter wrastle with the sperit.” He did not think it needful to say in what sense. “Yes, sir,” said the voice below, with an intonation of deep respect. “I never would hev ’lowed ’twar you-uns, though. I never war so skeered!” The parson stuttered in his haste. Whatever construction might be placed upon his intentions and the hour, he would repudiate that wild vocalization of the crowing Jube’s. “I hev brung my son along; I hev got Jube up hyar.” “Edzac’ly,” said Jube, with a facetiously accurate hiccough. “Air Jube a-wrastlin’ with the sperit, too?” demanded the unknown from below; the intention of the scoffer was in his tone. “Ye shet up,” said Jube, promptly. “I know ye. I know yer voice. Ye be Jake Baintree. I’ll kem down an’ wrastle with you-uns, fust thing ye know.” In the interval a sudden faint flicker of sheet lightning wavered across the dark world. Jube’s eyes were young and very keen. “Who be that thar with ye?” he cried out in a changed tone. An interval—was it cogitation? was it consultation? “Nobody,” said Jake Baintree sturdily,—“nobody be with me.”