About the place, seeking here and there for something; now and then halting

To listen, now and then jerking his head around and casting a quick glance

Toward the bed; and always muttering, always mumbling to himself. At last he

Found what he seemed to want — a rusty old butcher-knife and a whetstone.

Then he crept to his place by the fire, sat himself down, and began to whet the

Knife softly on the stone, still muttering, mumbling, ejaculating. The winds

Sighed around the lonely place, the mysterious voices of the night floated by

Out of the distances. The shining eyes of venturesome mice and rats peered out

At the old man from cracks and coverts, but he went on with his work, rapt,

Absorbed, and noted none of these things.

At long intervals he drew his thumb along the edge of his knife, and nodded

his head with satisfaction. 'It grows sharper,' he said; 'yes, it grows sharper.'

He took no note of the flight of time, but worked tranquilly on, entertaining

himself with his thoughts, which broke out occasionally in articulate speech:

'His father wrought us evil, he destroyed us — and is gone down into the

eternal fires! Yes, down into the eternal fires! He escaped us — but it was

God's will, yes it was God's will, we must not repine. But he hath not escaped

the fires! no, he hath not escaped the fires, the consuming, unpitying,

remorseless fires — and they are everlasting!'