"Aye—but did you—mark these words, Damaris?"
"Nay—O my dear, how should I—at such a moment!"
"They were all—of Black Bartlemy! And what should this mean, think you?"
"Nay, dear love, never heed!" says she, clasping me the closer.
"Aye, but I must, Damaris, for—in a while this singing shall come again mayhap and—if it doth—I know what 'twill be!"
"O Martin—Martin, what do you mean?"
"I mean 'twill be about the poor Spanish lady," says I, and catching up my belt where it hung, I buckled it about me.
"Ah—what would you do, Martin?"
"I'm for Deliverance."
"Then will I come also."