“You are a most comforting person, Keyork,” said Unorna, with a faint smile.  “I only wish I could believe everything you tell me.”

“You must either believe me or renounce all claim to intelligence,” answered the little man, climbing from his chair and sitting upon the table at her elbow.  His short, sturdy legs swung at a considerable height above the floor, and he planted his hands firmly upon the board on either side of him.  The attitude was that of an idle boy, and was so oddly out of keeping with his age and expression that Unorna almost laughed as she looked at him.

“At all events,” he continued, “you cannot doubt my absolute sincerity.  You come to me for an explanation.  I give you the only sensible one that exists, and the only one which can have a really sedative effect upon your excitement.  Of course, if you have any especial object in believing in ghosts—­if it affords you any great and lasting pleasure to associate, in imagination, with spectres, wraiths, and airily-malicious shadows, I will not cross your fancy.  To a person of solid nerves a banshee may be an entertaining companion, and an apparition in a well-worn winding-sheet may be a pretty toy.  For all I know, it may be a delight to you to find your hair standing on end at the unexpected appearance of a dead woman in a black cloak between you and the person with whom you are engaged in animated conversation.  All very well, as a mere pastime, I say.  But if you find that you are reaching a point on which your judgment is clouded, you had better shut up the magic lantern and take the rational view of the case.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

“Will you allow me to say something very frank, Unorna?” asked Keyork with unusual diffidence.

“If you can manage to be frank without being brutal.”

“I will be short, at all events.  It is this.  I think you are becoming superstitious.”  He watched her closely to see what effect the speech would produce.  She looked up quickly.

“Am I?  What is superstition?”

“Gratuitous belief in things not proved.”

“I expected a different definition from you.”

“What did you expect me to say?”

“That superstition is belief.”

“I am not a heathen,” observed Keyork sanctimoniously.

“Far from it,” laughed Unorna.  “I have heard that devils believe and tremble.”

“And you class me with those interesting things, my dear friend?”

“Sometimes:  when I am angry with you.”

“Two or three times a day, then?  Not more than that?” inquired the sage, swinging his heels, and staring at the rows of skulls in the background.

“Whenever we quarrel.  It is easy for you to count the occasions.”

“Easy, but endless.  Seriously, Unorna, I am not the devil.  I can prove it to you conclusively on theological grounds.”

“Can you?  They say that his majesty is a lawyer, and a successful one, in good practice.”