“Is that you, Renalt?” she said, presently.
“Get up—do you hear?”
“Keep the bolt fro’ me. Pray to the Lord for a bad old ’ooman. Wrastle for me, Renalt.”
“Are you crazy?”
She bumped her elbows on the floor as she lay, in fretful terror.
“Wrastle—wrastle!” she whined. “Don’t waste your breath on axing things. While you talk He enters.”
“Who enters?”
“The Lord of hosts. I saw His face at the window, and the breath o’ His nostrils was like the sound o’ guns. I arlays meant to repent—I swear it on the blessed book. It’s a wicked thing to compact wi’ the prince o’ darkness. Believe me, truth, I arlays meant it, but the pot must be boiled and the beds made and where were old Peggy’s time? You wudn’t smite a body, Lord, for caring of her dooties, and I repent now. It’s never too late over one sinner doing penance. Oh, Lord, take the young and well-favored and gie crass Rottengoose a month for her sins!”
“Peggy, I haven’t a doubt you’ve plenty to do penance for. But have you really the stupendous assurance to think that all this storm is got up on your account? Get up, you old idiot! The thunder’s past and there’s nothing to be afraid of now.”
Her lean body went in with a great sigh. For some moments she lay as she was; then cautiously twisted her head and peered up at me.