But Peter was, or affected to be, too much occupied to look at him.
“What dost see, man, that thou starest so?”
“It comes, it comes—the rain—the rain—a torrent—a deluge—ha, ha! Blessed is the corpse the rain rains on. Sir Piers may be drenched through his leaden covering by such a downfall as that—splash, splash—fire and water and thunder, all together—is not that fine?—ha, ha! The heavens will weep for him, though friends shed not a tear. When did a great man’s heir feel sympathy for his sire’s decease? When did his widow mourn? When doth any man regret his fellow? Never! He rejoiceth—he maketh glad in his inmost heart—he cannot help it—it is nature. We all pray for—we all delight in each other’s destruction. We were created to do so; or why else should we act thus? I never wept for any man’s death, but I have often laughed. Natural sympathy!—out on the phrase. The distant heavens—the senseless trees—the impenetrable stones—shall regret you more than man—shall bewail your death with more sincerity. Ay, ’tis well—rain on—splash, splash; it will cool the hell-fever. Down, down—buckets and pails—ha, ha!”
There was a pause, during which the sexton, almost exhausted by the frenzy in which he had suffered himself to be involved, seemed insensible to all around him.
“I tell you what,” said Burtenshaw to Plant; “I have always thought there was more in Peter Bradley nor appears on the outside. He is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! do you think a man such as he pretends to be could talk in that sort of way—about nat’ral simpering?—no such thing.”
When Peter recovered, his insane merriment broke out afresh, having only acquired fury by the pause.
“Look out, look out,” cried he; “hark to the thunder—list to the rain. Marked ye that flash—marked ye the clock-house—and the bird upon the roof? ’tis the rook—the great bird of the house, that hath borne away the soul of the departed. There, there—can you not see it? it sits and croaks through storm and rain, and never heeds at all—and wherefore should it heed? See, it flaps its broad black wings—it croaks—ha! ha! It comes—it comes.”
And driven, it might be, by the terror of the storm, from more secure quarters, a bird, at this instant, was dashed against the window, and fell to the ground.
“That’s a call,” continued Peter; “it will be over soon, and we must set out. The dead will not need to tarry. Look at that trail of fire along the avenue; dost see yon line of sparkles, like a rocket’s tail? That’s the path the corpse will take. St. Hermes’s flickering fire, Robin Goodfellow’s dancing light, or the blue flame of the corpse-candle, which I saw flitting to the churchyard last week, was not so pretty a sight—ha, ha!”
“But if thou didst see a corpse-candle, as thou call’st thy pale blue flame,” said Toft, “whose death doth it betoken?—eh!”
“Thy own,” returned Peter, sharply.
“Mine! thou lying old cheat—dost dare to say that to my face? Why, I’m as hale and hearty as ever a man in the house. Dost think there’s no life and vigour in this arm, thou drivelling old dotard?”
Upon which, Toft seized Peter by the throat, with an energy that, but for the timely intervention of the company, who rushed to his assistance, the prophet might himself have anticipated the doom he prognosticated.
Released from the grasp of Toft, who was held back by the bystanders, Peter again broke forth into his eltrich laugh; and staring right into the face of his adversary, with eyes glistening, and hands uplifted, as if in the act of calling down an imprecation on his head, he screamed, in a shrill and discordant voice, “Soh! you will not take my warning? you revile me—you flout me! ‘Tis well! your fate shall prove a warning to all unbelievers—they shall remember this night, though you will not. Fool! fool!—your doom has long been sealed! I saw your wraith choose out its last lodgment on Halloween; I know the spot. Your grave is dug already—ha, ha!” And, with renewed laughter, Peter rushed out of the room.