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In an instant the thin man had out a knife and was pressing the point firmly against Martin’s ribs.

Over Martin’s florid face there came a ghastly pallor. “Let me go!” he yelled. “Take away thy knife, thou black-hearted, thrice accurst old goat! I ’ve nought of thine. O Tom, to use me thus basely!” And sprawling on his back, he wriggled under the knife like a great, helpless hog.

The thin man smiled. To Phil Marsham his face seemed to have grown like pictures of the Devil in old books. He held the knife against the shrieking fat man’s breast and pressed it the harder when Martin clutched at his wrist, then with a fierce “Pfaw!” of disgust released his victim and stood erect. “Pig!” he whispered. “See!” The point of the knife was red with blood. “Th’ art not worth killing. Thy thin blood would quench the fire of a fleshed blade.”

With that, he deliberately spat in the man’s face, and turning, went off alone.

They were two sober men that watched him go, for the fumes of liquor had fled from the fat man’s brain as he lay with the knife at his heart, and of their wine Phil Marsham had taken not a drop. Striding away, the thin man never looked behind him; and still showing them only his back, he passed out of sight.

Martin remained as pale as before he had been red. He rubbed his sore breast where the knife had pricked him, and gulped three or four times. “Ah-h-h!” he breathed. “God be praised, he’s gone!” He made the sign of the cross, then cast a sharp glance at Phil to see if he had noticed. “God be praised, he’s gone! He hath a cruel humour. He will kill for a word, when the mood is on him. I thought I was a dead man. Ah-h-h!”