"Don't you do it, or else you'll rue it!" I said. And then I stopped, and
my heart stopped too, I'll swear, for in an instant moment I saw that
Squire remembered when and where he'd heard that warning afore. He turned
a awful sort o' green colour, and started from his chair. Then he fell
back in it again and stared upon me as if I was a spectrum rose out of a
grave. He couldn't speak for a bit, but presently he linked up my voice
with the past, and squared it out and came to his senses. But he didn't
twist, nor turn, nor quail afore me. In fact, when he recovered a bit, he
was a good deal more interested than frightened.
"Those words!" he said. "Could it be--is it possible that you--"
"God's my judge, Squire Champernowne, that I didn't mean to touch on
that," I answered. "'Twas dead and buried in my heart, and the kind words
you have said to me would have made me keep it there for evermore. I ban't
your judge, though you be going to be mine, and I didn't speak them words
in no sense to threaten, and I didn't speak 'em to remind you as you'd
ever heard 'em before. 'Twas just because the words be solemn poetry," I
said. "'Twas just because of that I used 'em, and for no other reason."
He nodded and considered.
"Tell me," he answered in a simple, quiet way--"tell me everything you
know about that night from the beginning."
And so I did.
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