While we talked, the collier and two or three men came to us, telling
excitedly how that the kiln was raked out, and that the cauldron was
empty--doubtless the work of the fiend.
"Saw you aught of any fiend, good sir?" asked the priest of me.
Now I remembered the roe deer in time, and answered, "I saw nought worse
than myself"--but I think that, had the collier known my thoughts, he
would have fled me as he fled that he took me for. But that he was sore
terrified I have no doubt, for it seemed that he neither recognized me,
nor remembered what he was doing at the kiln when I came. Maybe, as
often happens, he had told some wild story to so many that he believed
it himself.
"Then, my sons," said the hermit, "the fiend finding Dudda no prey of
his, departed straightway, and he need fear no more."
However, they would have him sprinkle all the place with holy water,
repeating the proper prayers the while, which he did willingly, knowing
the fears of his people, and gladly trying to put them to rest.
Then the collier begged one after another to bide with him that night,
but all refused, having other things to be done which they said might
not he foregone. It was plain that they dared not stay; but this seemed
to be my chance.
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