The descent was painfully made, and it was long before the traveller stood
blinking by his fire--a gaunt and hollow-eyed lad. Senhouse took him in at
a glance, stained, out-at-elbows with the world, nursing a grudge,
footsore and heartsore. He had a gypsy look, and yet had not a gypsy
serenity. That is a race that is never angry at random; and never bitter
at large. A gypsy will want a man's life; but if the man is not before
him, will be content to wait until he is. But this wanderer seemed to have
a quarrel with time and place, that they held not his enemy by the gullet.
"You travel late, my friend," said Senhouse briskly.
"I travel by night," said the stranger, "lest I should be seen by men or
the sun."
Senhouse laughed. "_In girum imus noctu, non ut consumimur igni_.' They
used to say that of the devils once upon a time. Devilish bad Latin; but
it reads backwards as well as forwards, like the devil himself."
"My devil rides on my back," said the stranger, "and carries with him the
fire that roasts me."
He was at once bitter and sententious. Senhouse put down his hurts to
bruises of the self-esteem.
"I hope that you dropped him up above," he said cheerfully, "or that you
will let me exorcise him.
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