"'Tis her sawl be sick by all the looks of it," explained Jonah. "An' it tells 'pon the butivul body of her, like a blight 'pon a rose. She've been ill, to an' from, ever since the bearin' of that dead baaby; an' from being a woman of ready spirit she've grawed that down-daunted as you'd a'most say she'd cry or run if a goose hissed at her. An' now, be gormed if she ban't comin' to be a regular bed-lier! Think of her, so peart an' spry as she was, keepin' her room these summer days! Caan't 'e offer for to cure her, Cherry? I lay theer'd be gude money to it an' plenty, whatever hard thoughts some have got against you."
"Theer's but wan cure as I knaws for her," said the old woman gloomily; "an ugly, savage cure, an' fallen out of use these many days now. But a sure balm and a thing as eats to the heart like a cancer, rubbed under a woman's left breast."
"God's truth, mum!"
"'Tis as I tell 'e. Like a cancer; but 'stead of being death to the livin', 'tis life to the dyin', or them like to die. A savage cure, an' such latter-day stuff as Myles Stapledon would awnly cock his nose at it; so it won't be done, however. An' her'll die—her'll die for need of oil of man. 'Tis that—a thing in no books—a secret as'll be a dead and buried secret in a few years' time, when me an' the likes of me be dead an' buried."
"Oil of man? I've heard Churdles Ash name it."
"Ess, he'd be sure to knaw at his age. 'Tis simple enough. Theer's a virtue in all bones—that everybody knaws who's drinked soup, I s'pose."
"Surely; an' the better the bone, the better the broth," assented Jonah.
"That's it! You've hit the point I was comin' to. So it happens that a Christian bone of a human be fuller far of virtue than any saved from a sheep or other beast."
Cramphorn felt a cold shiver slide up his spine like a speedy snail, and spread out upon his neck and shoulders.
"Christ A'mighty! What be tellin' 'bout? Would 'e have folks turn into black cannibals?"