"You're an old man, Mr. Dingwell." "And you're an old woman, Miss Sarah," said he--not caring to be reminded of his years by other people, though he playfully called himself on occasions an old "boy"--"as old as Abraham's wife, whose namesake you are, though you have not lighted on an Abraham yet, nor become the mother of a great nation." "Old enough to be good enough, as my poor mother used to say, sir; I am truly; and sorry I am, Mr. Dingwell, to see you, on this hoffle night, bent on no good. I'm afraid, sir--oh, sir, sir, oughtn't you think, with them sounds in your ears, Mr. Dingwell?" "The most formidable thunder, my dear Sarah, proceeds from the silvery tongue of woman. I can stand any other. _It_ frightens me. So, egad, if you please, I'll take refuge in the open air, and go out, and patter a prayer." And with a nod and a smirk, having had fooling enough, he glided by Miss Rumble, who made him an appalled courtesy, and, setting down his candle on the hall-table, he said, touching his false whiskers with his finger tips, "Mind, not a word about these--upon my soul----you'd _better_ not." She made another courtesy. He stopped and looked at her for an answer. "Can't you _speak_?" he said. "No, sir--sure--not a word," she faltered. "Good girl!" he said, and opened the door, with his latch-key in his pocket, on pitchy darkness, which was instantaneously illuminated by the lightning, and another awful roar of thunder broke over their heads. "The voice of heaven in warning!" she murmured to herself, as she stood by the banisters, dazzled by the gleam, and listening to the reverberation ringing in her ears. "I pray God he may turn back yet." He looked over his shoulder. "Another shot, Miss Rumble--missed again, you see." He nodded, stepped out upon the flags, and shut the door. She heard his steps in the silence that followed, traversing the court. "Oh dear! but I wish he _was_ gone, right out--a hoffle old man he is. There's a weight on my conscience like, and a fright in my heart, there is, ever since he camed into the 'ouse. He is so presumptious. To see that hold man made hup with them rings and whiskers, like a robber or a play-actor! And defyin' the blessed thunder of heaven--a walking hout, a mockin' and darin' it, at these hours--Oh _law_!" The interjection was due to another flash and peal. "I wouldn't wonder--no more I would--if that flash was the death o' 'im!" CHAPTER XI. THE PALE HORSE. SALLY RUMBLE knocked at the usual hour at the old man's door next morning. "Come in, ma'am," he answered, in a weary, peevish voice. "Open the window-shutter, and give me some light, and hand me my watch, please." All which she did. "I have not closed my eyes from the time I lay down." "Not ailing, sir, I hope?" "Just allow me to count, and I'll tell you, my dear." He was trying his pulse.