"
Zeb stood still, looking out over the purple sea. The old man touched
his arm gently.
"How so?"
"I've a-sold my soul to hell."
"I don't care. You'm alive an' standin' here, an' I can save 'ee."
"Can 'ee so?" Zeb asked ironically.
"Man, I feel sure o't." His ugly earnest face became almost grand in
the flame of the sunset. "Turn aside, here, an' kneel down; I will
wrestle wi' the Lord for thee till comfort comes, if it take the long
night."
"You'm a strange chap. Can such things happen i' these days?"
"Kneel and try."
"No, no, no," Zeb flung out his hands. "It's too late, I tell 'ee.
No man's words will I hear but the words of Lamech--'I ha' slain a man
to my wounding, an' a young man to my hurt.' Let me go--'tis too late.
Let me go, I say--"
As the hollibubber still clung to his arm, he gave a push and broke
loose. The old man tumbled beside the path with his head against the
potato fence. Zeb with a curse took to his heels and ran; nor for a
hundred yards did he glance behind.
When at last he flung a look over his shoulder, the hollibubber had
picked himself up and was kneeling in the pathway. His hands were
clasped and lifted.
"Too late!" shouted Zeb again, and dashed on without a second look.
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