“Peace,” said he, “Gammer Sludge; know your place, if it be your will. Sufflamina, Gammer Sludge, and allow me to expound this matter to our worshipful guest.—Sir,” said he, again addressing Tressilian, “this old woman speaks true, though in her own rude style; for certainly this faber ferrarius, or blacksmith, takes money of no one.”
“And that is a sure sign he deals with Satan,” said Dame Sludge; “since no good Christian would ever refuse the wages of his labour.”
“The old woman hath touched it again,” said the pedagogue; “rem acu tetigit—she hath pricked it with her needle’s point.—This Wayland takes no money, indeed, nor doth he show himself to any one.”
“And can this madman, for such I hold him,” said the traveller, “know aught like good skill of his trade?”
“O, sir, in that let us give the devil his due—Mulciber himself, with all his Cyclops, could hardly amend him. But assuredly there is little wisdom in taking counsel or receiving aid from one, who is but too plainly in league with the author of evil.”
“I must take my chance of that, good Master Holiday,” said Tressilian, rising; “and as my horse must now have eaten his provender, I must needs thank you for your good cheer, and pray you to show me this man’s residence, that I may have the means of proceeding on my journey.”
“Ay, ay, do ye show him, Master: Herasmus,” said the old dame, who was, perhaps, desirous to
