ruck dumb with astonishment, and said to himself, "I
wonder what that cowardly wretch is thinking of doing now? Does he
imagine I have never seen finer things than these in the regions
above--ay! and more horrid things below? However, I will soon make him
repent it, at all events." Matteo then approaching him, besought him
to come out; but Roderigo replied, "Oh, you think you have done a fine
thing now! What do you mean to do with all this trumpery? Can you
escape my power, think you, in this way, or elude the vengeance of the
king? Thou poltroon villain, I will have thee hanged for this!" And
as Matteo continued the more to entreat him, his adversary still
vilified him in the same strain. So Matteo, believing there was no
time to be lost, made the sign with his hat, when all the musicians
who had been stationed there for the purpose suddenly struck up a
hideous din, and ringing a thousand peals, approached the spot.
Roderigo pricked up his ears at the sound, quite at a loss what to
think, and rather in a perturbed tone of voice he asked Matteo what it
meant. To this the latter returned, apparently much alarmed: "Alas!
dear Roderigo, it is your wife; she is coming for you!" It is
impossible to give an idea of the anguish of Roderigo's mind and the
strange alteration which his feelings underwent at that name. The
moment the name of "wife" was pronounced, he had no longer presence of
mind to consider whether it were probable, or even possible, that it
could be her. Without replying a single word, he leaped out and fled
in the utmost terror, leaving the lady to herself, and preferring
rather to return to his infernal abode and render an account of his
adventures, than run the risk of any further sufferings and vexations
under the matrimonial yoke. And thus Belphagor again made his
appearance in the infernal domains, bearing ample testimony to the
evils introduced into a household by a wife; while Matteo, on his
part, who knew more of the matter than the devil, returned
triumphantly home, not a little proud of the victory he had achieved.

THE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER[2]

BY WASHINGTON IRVING

[2] Courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, Publishers, New York &
London.

A few miles from Boston in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet,
winding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles
Bay, and terminating in a thickly-wooded swamp or morass. On one side
of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the