We found quite a practicable ascent of the cliff on the side of the stair which was further from the platform. And, after climbing this, we found a fairly even space of several hundred yards, and then an easy descent upon the other side. We did not, however, attempt the descent, but sat down and talked. Jack began— “Bob,” he said, “we must keep cool, for we are playing for very high stakes.” “For life and death, you think.” “More than that, perhaps. I wonder what selling your soul meant in the old times?” “I suppose,” I said, “whatever else it meant, it meant acting dishonourably or treacherously for the sake of some personal gain.” “But some fellows have sold their souls who could never be persuaded to act either treacherously or dishonourably for the sake of any personal gain.” “I daresay,” said I, not seeing nor caring what he was driving at. “Now, Bob, if I were the devil, and if I wanted to get you to sell me your soul, I know what I should do.” I was getting a little vexed, but I replied simply—“Well, what would you do?” “I would endeavour to pique your curiosity, and then I would show you that you could gratify it by putting yourself in my power, and then I would have your body even if you still insisted on keeping your soul.” “And which do you think it would be?” “Well, I should have to be satisfied with your body, except in one event.” “And, pray, what would that be?” “I might by the exhibition of some special or unaccounted-for power gain such influence over you as to get you to put your conscience at my disposal. Then you would be mine soul and body.” I was beginning to get vexed, partly because I suppose I saw more truth in what he said than I liked, so I said shortly— “What do you mean just now by all this?” “I think our friend, the signor, is the devil himself. I don’t mean any fee-faw-fum. I daresay there are a good many other men as much devils as he is, but he has all the power which great and special practical knowledge gives a man, and he is as full of malice as an egg is full of meat, and he is up to some very big villainy and, what is more to the purpose, he has a design upon you.” “He has done us no harm that I can see.” “He has done us a great deal of harm; he is persuading you to trust yourself to him, and he is worthy of no trust whatever, d—n him.” Now this from Jack was rather startling; for he was not in the least prone to use bad language. I never heard “the Englishman’s prayer” from his lips before or since. But his earnestness irritated me more than his profanity surprised me. “Don’t you see,” I said rather sullenly, “that if your hypothesis is correct your prayer is rather superfluous?” “Well, yes, it is superfluous,” he said with a harsh laugh quite unlike him; “he is damned already sure enough.” “I don’t see much sign of damnation about him,” I said, “not if misery be an essential part of damnation.”