The Hermit looked at him irresolutely, and retired to his soot and
cinders and lay down, and got up again and came to the bars, and again
looked at him irresolutely, and finally said with sharpness: "I don't
like tobacco."

"I don't like dirt," rejoined Mr. Traveller; "tobacco is an excellent
disinfectant. We shall both be the better for my pipe. It is my
intention to sit here through this summer day, until that blessed summer
sun sinks low in the west, and to show you what a poor creature you are,
through the lips of every chance wayfarer who may come in at your gate."

"What do you mean?" inquired the Hermit, with a furious air.

"I mean that yonder is your gate, and there are you, and here am I; I
mean that I know it to be a moral impossibility that any person can stray
in at that gate from any point of the compass, with any sort of
experience, gained at first hand, or derived from another, that can
confute me and justify you."

"You are an arrogant and boastful hero," said the Hermit. "You think
yourself profoundly wise."

"Bah!" returned Mr. Traveller, quietly smoking. "There is little wisdom
in knowing that every man must be up and doing, and that all mankind are
made dependent on one another."

"You have companions outside," said the Hermit. "I am not to be imposed
upon by your assumed confidence in the people who may enter."