"Dooty mam, pre-cisely! 'Tis his honour the Major, I thought as he were set on matrimony 'stead o' which I now find he's set on campaigning again, he talks o' nothing else o' late—and if he goes—I go. And if I go I can't ask you to wed—'twouldn't be fair."
"And why does he want to go?"
"Witchcraft, mam, devils, sorcery, black magic, and damned spells. Mrs. Agatha I do tell you he are not been his own man since he saw—what he saw i' the orchard t'other night."
"And what was that?" enquired Mrs. Agatha, glancing up bright-eyed from her fragrant basketful of roses.
"A apparation in form o' the dev—no, the devil in form of a apparation, mam."
"Fiddlededee!" exclaimed Mrs. Agatha. The Sergeant jumped and stared.
"Mam!" said he in gentle reproach, "don't say that—ghosts is serious and——"
"A fiddle-stick for your ghost! 'Twould take more than a shade to put his honour off his food, Sergeant Zebedee Tring! The question is, who was your ghost? What was he like?"
"Why since you're for cross-examinating me, I'll confess I caught but a glimpse of same, same having vanished itself away afore my very eyes."
"Where to?"