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“Certainly, to have done so would show the better providence.”

“Sir, I said the foolishness appeared. But, I tell you, there was foresight in the disposition–in neighbouring the building to the cliff path. For so they could the easier enter unobserved, and store their Tcegs of Nantes brandy in the belly of the organ.”

“They? Who were they?”

“Why, who–but two-thirds of all Dunburgh?”

“Smugglers?”‘

“It was a nest of ’em–traffickers in the eternal fire o’ weekdays, and on the Sabbath, who so sanctimonious? But honesty comes not from the washing, like a clean shirt, nor can the piety of one day purge the evil of six. They built their church anigh the margin, forasmuch as it was handy, and that they thought, ‘Surely the Lord will not undermine His own?’ A rare community o’ blasphemers, fro’ the parson that took his regular toll of the organ-loft, to him that sounded the keys and pulled out the joyous stops as if they was so many spigots to what lay behind.”

“Of when do you speak?”

“I speak of nigh a century and a half ago. I speak of the time o’ the Seven Years’ War and of Exciseman Jones, that, twenty year after he were buried, took his revenge on the cliff side of the man that done him to death.”

“And who was that?”

“They called him Dark Dignum, sir–a great feat smuggler, and as wicked as he was bold,”

“Is your story about him?”

“Ay, it is; and of my grandfather, that were a boy when they laid, and was glad to lay, the exciseman deep as they could dig; for the sight of his sooty face in his coffin was worse than a bad dream.”

“Why was that?”

The old man edged closer to me, and spoke in a sibilant voice.

“He were murdered, sir, foully and horribly, for all they could never bring it home to the culprit.”

“Will you tell me about it?”

He was nothing loth. The wind, the place of perished tombs, the very wild-blown locks of this ‘withered apple-john’, were eerie accompaniments to the tale he piped in my ear:–

“When my grandfather were a boy,” he said, “there lighted in Dunburgh Exciseman Jones. P’r’aps the village had gained an ill reputation. P’r’aps Exciseman Jones’s predecessor had failed to secure the confidence o’ the exekitive. At any rate, the new man was little to the fancy of the village. He was a grim, sour-looking, brass-bound galloot; and incorruptible–which was the worst. The keg o’ brandy left on his doorstep o’ New Year’s Eve had been better unspiled and run into the gutter; for it led him somehow to the identification of the innocent that done it, and he had him by the heels in a twinkling. The squire snorted at the man, and the parson looked askance; but Dark Dignum, he swore he’d be even with him, if he swung for it. They was hurt and surprised, that was the truth, over the scrupulosity of certain people; and feelin’ ran high against Exciseman Jones.

“At that time Dark Dignum was a young man with a reputation above his years for profaneness and audacity. Ugly things there were said about him; and amongst many wicked he was feared for his wickedness. Exciseman Jones had his eye on him; and that was bad for Exciseman Jones.

“Now one murk December night Exciseman Jones staggered home with a bloody long slice down his scalp, and the red drip from it spotting the cobble-stones.

“‘Summut fell on him from a winder,’ said Dark Dignum, a little later, as he were drinkin’ hisself hoarse in the Black Boy. ‘Summut fell on him retributive, as you might call it. For, would you believe it, the man had at the moment been threatenin’ me? He did. He said, “I know damn well about you, Dignum; and for all your damn ingenuity, I’ll bring you with a crack to the ground yet.”‘