punishment for this he had knocked him on the head. Mynheer van
Belzebuth is, as every one knows, the greatest gamester that there is
upon or under the earth, but the game he particularly affects is golf.
When he goes his round in Flanders one always meets him, club in hand,
like a true Fleming.

The wheelwright of Coq was very fond of Paternostre, who, next to
himself, was the best golfer in the country. He went to his funeral
with some golfers from the hamlets of Coq, La Cigogne, and La Queue de
l'Ayache.

On returning from the cemetery they went to the tavern to drink, as
they say, to the memory of the dead,[21] and there they lost
themselves in talk about the noble game of golf. When they separated,
in the dusk of evening:

[21] _Boire la cervelle du mort._

"A good journey to you," said the Belgian players, "and may St.
Antony, the patron of golfers, preserve you from meeting the devil on
the way!"

"What do I care for the devil?" replied Roger. "If he challenged me I
should soon beat him!"

The companions trotted from tavern to tavern without misadventure; but
the wolf-bell had long tolled for retiring in the belfry of Conde when
they returned each one to his own den.

VII

As he was putting the key into the lock the wheelwright thought he
heard a shout of mocking laughter. He turned, and saw in the darkness
a man six feet high, who again burst out laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" said he, crossly.

"At what? Why, at the _aplomb_ with which you boasted a little while
ago that you would dare measure yourself against the devil."

"Why not, if he challenged me?"

"Very well, my master, bring your clubs. I challenge you!" said
Mynheer van Belzebuth, for it was himself. Roger recognized him by a
certain odour of sulphur that always hangs about his majesty.

"What shall the stake be?" he asked resolutely.

"Your soul?"

"Against what?"

"Whatever you please."

The wheelwright reflected.

"What have you there in your sack?"

"My spoils of the week."

"Is the soul of Paternostre among them?"

"To be sure! and those of five other golfers; dead, like him, without
confession."

"I play you my soul against that of Paternostre."

"Done!"

VIII

The two adversaries repaired to the adjoining field and chose for
their goal the door of the cemetery of Conde.[22] Belzebuth teed a
ball on a frozen heap, after which he said, according to custom:

[22] They play to points, not h