"What's to do, Roger?"
"'Tis the eyes of 'er, Sergeant! 'Tis 'er mumping an' 'er mowing! 'Tis all the brimstoney look an' ways of 'er as turns a man's good flesh to flesh o' goose, 'is bones to jelly an' 'is bowels to water—an' that's what!"
"Nay, but what is't, Roger man?"
"'Ere's me, look'ee, trimming them borders, Sergeant, so 'appy-'earted as any bird and all at once, I falls to coldsome, quakesome shivers, my 'eart jumps into my jaws, my knees knocks an' trembles horrorsome-like, an' I sweats——"
"Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant.
"Then I feels a ghas'ly touch o' quakesome fingers as shoots all through my vitals—like fire, Sergeant and—there she is at my elber!"
"Who, Roger?"
"And 'er looks at me doomful, Sergeant, an' that's what!"
"Aye, but who, Roger, damme who?"
"'Tis th' owd witch as do be come for 'ee an' that's what!"