“Very like,” said Trevethick, approvingly, although probably without any clear conception of the historical picture thus presented to him.  “It’s the least they could do in the spirit, after having done so much mischief in the flesh.”

The contradiction involved in this exemplary remark, combined with the absurdity of repentance taking the form of interest in mining speculations, was almost too much for Richard’s sense of humor; but he only nodded with gravity, as became a man who was imbibing information, and inquired further, whether, in addition to these favorers of industry, there were any spirits who worked ill to miners.

“Well, I can’t say as there are,” said the landlord, with the air of a man who can afford to give a point in an argument; “but there’s a many things not of this world that happen underground, leastway in our mines, for Sol there is from the north, and it mayn’t be the same in those parts.”

“It certainly is not,” interrupted Solomon, taking his pipe out of his mouth to intensify the positiveness of his position.

“I say,” continued Trevethick, reddening, “that down in Cornwall here there is scarce a mine without its spirit o’ some sort.  At Wheal Vor, for example, a man and his son were once blown to pieces while blasting; and, nothing being left of them but fragments of flesh, the engine-man put ’em into the furnace with his shovel; and now the pit is full of little black dogs.  I’ve seen one of ’em myself.”

Solomon laughed aloud.

Richard was expecting an explosion of wrath.  The old man turned toward him quietly, and observed with tender gravity:  “And in a certain mine, which Sol and I are both acquainted with, a white rabbit always shows itself before any accident which proves fatal to man.  It was seen on the day that Sol’s father sacrificed his life for mine.”  Then he told the story which Richard had already heard from Harry’s lips, while Solomon smoked in silence, and Harry looked hard at the fire, as though—­as Richard thought—­to avoid meeting the glance of her father’s hereditary benefactor.

“You are right to remember such a noble deed as long as you live,” said Richard, when the old man had done.  “My own life,” added he, in a lower tone, “was once preserved by one whom I shall love and honor as long as I have breath.”

He saw the color glow on the young girl’s cheek, and the fire-light shine with a new brilliance in her eyes.  Neither Trevethick nor Solomon had caught his observation; at the moment it was made the former was stretching out his great hand to the latter, moved by that memory of twenty years ago, and, perhaps, in token of forgiveness for his recent skepticism.

“Then there’s the Dead Hand at Wheal Danes, father,” observed Harry, in somewhat hasty resumption of the general subject.  “That’s as curious as any, and more terrible.”

“Wheal Danes!” said Solomon.  “Why, how comes that about, when nobody can never have been killed there?  It’s been disused ever since the Roman time, I thought?”