“Thou art but a slovenly workman, after all,” remarked Saint Cuthman. “The sides of thy Dyke are rough and uneven, and want levelling. A mortal labourer would be shrewdly reprimanded if he left them in such an untidy condition.”
“No mortal labourer could make such a trench,” cried the Fiend. “However, it shall never be said that I am a slovenly workman.”
Whereupon he seized his spade, and proceeded to level the banks of the Dyke, carefully removing all roughness and irregularity.
“Will that satisfy thy precise notions?” he called out, when he had done.
“I cannot deny that it looks better,” returned the holy man, glad to think that another hour had passed—for a soft touch falling upon his brow made him aware that, at this moment, Sister Ursula had turned the hour-glass for the second time.
A sharp sudden pain smote the Fiend, and made him roar out lustily, “Another stitch, and worse than the first! But it shall not hinder my task.”
Again he fell to work. Again, the hill was shaken to its base. Again, mighty masses of chalk were hurled into the valley, crushing everything upon which they descended. Again, the strokes of the pickaxe echoed throughout the Weald.
It was now dark. But the fiery breath of the Demon sufficed to light him in his task. He toiled away with right good will, for the Devil can work hard enough, I promise you, if the task be to his mind. All at once he suspended his labour. The hourglass had been turned for the third time.
“What is the matter with thee?” demanded the Saint.
“I know not,” replied the writhing Fiend. “A sudden attack of cramp in the arms and legs, I fancy. I must have caught cold on these windy downs. I will do a little lighter work till the fit passes off.” Upon this, he took up the shovel and began to trim the sides of the Dyke as before.
While he was thus engaged, the further end of the chasm closed up, so that when he took up the pickaxe once more he had all his work to do again. This caused him to snort and roar like a mad bull, and so much flame and smoke issued from his mouth and nostrils, that the bottom of the Dyke resembled the bed of a volcano.
Sister Ursula then turned the glass for the fourth time. Hereupon, an enormous mass of breccia, or gold-stone, as the common folk call it, which the Fiend had dislodged, rolled down upon his foot, and crushed it. This so enraged him, that he sent the fragment of gold-stone whizzing over the hills to Hove. What with rubbing his bruised foot, and roaring, a quarter of an hour elapsed before he could resume his work.
The fifth turning of the glass gave him such pains in the back, that for some minutes he was completely disabled.
“An attack of lumbago,” he cried. “I seem liable to all mortal ailments to-night.”
“Thou hadst better desist,” said the Saint. “The next attack may cripple thee for all time.”
“I am all right again,” shouted the Demon. “It was but a passing seizure, like those that have gone before it. Thou shalt now see what I can do.”
And he began to ply his pickaxe with greater energy than ever; toiling on without intermission, filling the chasm with flame from his fiery nostrils, and producing the effect of a continuous thunderstorm over the Weald. Thus he wrought on, I say, uninterruptedly, for the space of another hour.
Sister Ursula had turned the glass for the last time.
The Fiend was suddenly checked—but not this time by pains in the limbs, or prostration of strength. He had struck the pickaxe so deeply into the chalk that he could not remove it. He strained every nerve to pluck it forth, but it continued firmly embedded, and the helve, which was thick as the mainmast of a ship, and of toughest oak, broke in his grasp.
While he was roaring like an infuriated lion with rage and mortification, Saint Cuthman called out to him to come forth.
“Wherefore should I come forth?” the Fiend cried. “Thou thinkest I am baffled; but thou art mistaken. I will dig out my axe-head presently, and my shovel will furnish me with a new handle.”