"Name it, woman!"
"Where wanders Hurtel of the Red-Hand?"
"'Tis said he died in the Indies!"
"'Tis false!" she cried, with energy. "He can never die unaccursed by her he has wronged. No, no! he will have one to watch his pillow in his dying throes he would rather burn in hell, to which he is doomed, than see. No, no! his time has not yet come! his master will not let him slip out o' life so easily. Oh, it will be a glory to see him die; and mock his groans; and laugh, laugh at his terrors! Ha, ha, ha! Oh, will it not be a jubilee to see him struggle with the death!"
"I'God's name, woman, tell me who thou art?"
"Dost not behold what I am? Wouldst have fair winds, I will raise thee foul: wouldst have a smooth sea, I will make it boil and hiss: wilt say a prayer, I will turn it into a curse ere it can leave thy lips."
"Avaunt, sorceress!" he cried, crossing himself with horror.
"Ha, ha! so you can feel my power! Oh, well! it is a-pleasant to make men's stout hearts quake. Dost know me?" she asked, impressively, approaching her face close to his.
"No!" he said, retreating and preparing to descend the rock. "Avoid thee, Sathanas!"
"Listen!" she said, approaching and laying her hand on his arm, and whispering low in his ear.