“I don’t know, Licorice. I could not get that out of her.”
“Then he has, no doubt. I’ll get it out of her.”
Belasez trembled at the threat.
“Any thing more, old man? If not, I’ll go to sleep again.”
“Licorice,” said Abraham in a low voice, “the child said she loved him—as she loves me.”
“May he be buried in a dunghill! What witchcraft has he used to them both?”
“It touched me so, wife, I could hardly speak to her. She did not know why.”
“Abraham, do give over thy sentimental stuff! Nothing ever touches me!”
“I doubt if it do,” was Abraham’s dry answer.
“Such a rabbit as thou art!—as frightened as a hare, and as soft as a bag of duck’s down. I’m going to sleep.”