He kept silence for a little, his eyes upon a cloud of butterflies fluttering before them over a muddy place in the road, then again turned upon Joan his curious, half-squinting look. “Of course there’ve been men who weren’t afraid and yet have seen him. Men who were great enemies to him, and pushing him hard, and he so angry and despairing that he shows himself, tail, claws, and all! Tall Bible men and great men like Doctor Martin Luther who threw his ink-well at him. And a lot of other men—mass-priests, and bishops, and marprelates, all the same. It’s to their honour to have seen him, for so the people see how the Devil must hate them to come himself to beard them, and what a strong enemy they are to him, which means, of course, that the King of Heaven must hold them in high regard.—Even poor wights may sometimes give a good blow—just as a camp-follower might save an army or a scullion a palace! I’m not saying that I didn’t get a glint of his horns myself once on Little Heath, between two furze bushes!” Joan was not talkative. She walked steadily on, but she was tired, and her mind now seemed to drowse, and now, rousing itself, strayed far from the other’s talk. The tinker was piqued by her inattention. “And then witches and warlocks see him.—_Women_ see him,” he said with spite. “And not because they’re his enemies neither! Ten women know him, hair and hoof, to one man.... For why? They knew him first, as the good Book tells us, and became his gossips in Eden Garden. So ’tis that still when things go wrong ’tis woman that gives them the shog. The Devil gives her the apple still, and she takes it and shakes out harm on mankind—which is why we’ve got a leave to keep her somewhat down! That’s woman in ordinary—and then you come to witches—” Joan’s eyelids twitched.