rough that
vile wizard. No man durst even go to steal a sheep, or a pony, or so
much as a deer for dinner, lest he should be brought to book by a far
bigger rogue than he was. And this went on for many years; though they
prayed to God to abate it. But at last, when the wizard was getting fat
and haughty upon his high stomach, a mighty deliverance came to Exmoor,
and a warning, and a memory. For one day the sorcerer gazed from his
window facing the southeast of the compass, and he yawned, having killed
so many men that now he was weary of it.

"Ifackins," he cried, or some such oath, both profane and uncomely,
"I see a man on the verge of the sky-line, going along laboriously. A
pilgrim, I trow, or some such fool, with the nails of his boots inside
them. Too thin to be worth eating; but I will have him for the fun of
the thing; and most of those saints have got money."

With these words he stretched forth his legs on a stool, and pointed
the book of heathenish spells back upwards at the pilgrim. Now this good
pilgrim was plodding along, soberly and religiously, with a pound of
flints in either boot, and not an ounce of meat inside him. He felt the
spell of the wicked book, but only as a horse might feel a "gee-wug!"
addressed to him. It was in the power of this good man, either to go
on, or turn aside, and see out the wizard's meaning. And for a moment he
halted and stood, like one in two minds about a thing. Then the wizard
clapped one cover to, in a jocular and insulting manner; and the sound
of it came to the pilgrim's ear, about five miles in the distance, like
a great gun fired at him.

"By our Lady," he cried, "I must see to this; although my poor feet have
no skin below them. I will teach this heathen miscreant how to scoff at
Glastonbury."

Thereupon he turned his course, and ploughed along through the moors
and bogs, towards the eight-sided palace. The wizard sat on his chair of
comfort, and with the rankest contempt observed the holy man ploughing
towards him. "He has something good in his wallet, I trow," said the
black thief to himself; "these fellows get always the pick of the wine,
and the best of a woman's money." Then he cried, "Come in, come in, good
sir," as he always did to every one.

"Bad sir, I will not come in," said the pilgrim; "neither shall you come
out again. Here are the bones of all you have slain; and here shall your
own bones be."

"Hurry me not," cried the sorcerer; "that is a thin