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A Forest Walk
ButtherewastimeenoughyetforlittlePearl.
"Come,mychild!"saidHester,lookingaboutherfromthespotwherePearlhadstoodstillinthesunshine—"wewillsitdownalittlewaywithinthewood,andrestourselves."
"Iamnotaweary,mother,"repliedthelittlegirl."Butyoumaysitdown,ifyouwilltellmeastorymeanwhile."
"Astory,child!"saidHester."Andaboutwhat?"
"Oh,astoryabouttheBlackMan,"answeredPearl,takingholdofhermother’sgown,andlookingup,halfearnestly,halfmischievously,intoherface.
"Howhehauntsthisforest,andcarriesabookwithhimabig,heavybook,withironclasps;andhowthisuglyBlackManoffershisbookandanironpentoeverybodythatmeetshimhereamongthetrees;andtheyaretowritetheirnameswiththeirownblood;andthenhesetshismarkontheirbosoms.DidstthouevermeettheBlackMan,mother?"
"Andwhotoldyouthisstory,Pearl,"askedhermother,recognisingacommonsuperstitionoftheperiod.
"Itwastheolddameinthechimneycorner,atthehousewhereyouwatchedlastnight,"saidthechild."Butshefanciedmeasleepwhileshewastalkingofit.Shesaidthatathousandandathousandpeoplehadmethimhere,andhadwritteninhisbook,andhavehismarkonthem.Andthatuglytemperedlady,oldMistressHibbins,wasone.And,mother,theolddamesaidthatthisscarletletterwastheBlackMan’smarkonthee,andthatitglowslikearedflamewhenthoumeetesthimatmidnight,hereinthedarkwood.
