"He is free from the madness of gathering money, being content to live as the birds and beasts do, without care for the morrow, as your religion bids you to live. He has no wish to be talked about after he is dead and buried, which madmen dignify by calling it desire for fame. He has not racked his brain over books filled with lies and vain imaginations; but he knows the whereabout and the ways of fish and fowl, and how to find and use every herb and root which is good for food. His bit of orchard is well kept and tilled, and if you were to put him down in any quarter of the world, he would know how to get a living. And to crown all, he accepts without murmur the name of fool, which madmen give him." "Not quite so," I interjected, remembering what the high and mighty Tunstall had to suffer through calling him so. This led to my telling the story, which provoked the hermit to one of his queer fits of laughter--laughter which did not pucker his face or show in his eyes, but came from his throat like the noise from a gun. A few days later, my host spoke freely of his own history, telling me that his relatives had obtained possession of his estate on the allegation of his lunacy, and had attempted to shut him up in a bedlam. He had contrived to effect his escape with money, which sufficed to stock his farm in a small way; but he had long lived in fear of being seized and carried off to a madhouse. Now he had lost the fear, having been unmolested for some years. So, at least, he said; but from the vehemence with which he spoke of the matter, and from some of his actions, I doubted whether his assurance was as perfect as he affirmed. He sometimes made the round of the island at night, gun in hand, preferring to go alone, and on his return, he looked with great carefulness to the bolts and bars of the door. That he should have such fastenings in a place so remote and inaccessible had appeared strange to me, but at first I set it down to force of habit. Of the other denizens of the islet I saw little. The man was a sturdy fellow of a hangdog look, and spoke mumblingly, so that I could not make out one word in a dozen. The woman was of appalling ugliness, and so unwomanlike as never to speak except when spoken to, and not always then. Their son combined the qualities of sire and dam, a lout so clumsy and hideous that he seemed hardly human, but of immense bodily strength. All three gave a sullen obedience to the hermit, often making surly answer to his commands, but appearing to go in dread of him. It was evident they looked on me with disfavour, though why I had no guess, and I did not give myself the trouble to learn.