“Because ’tis purty you be ... no, ’andsome’s the word—a foine ’andsome wench.”
“But over-large for a flower, I fear,” she sighed.
“Sizeable!” nodded the Aged One. “But oi loikes ’em big—allus did. So doan’t ’ee worrit naun ’count o’ y’r size. An’ as fur ol’ Penelope, ’er desarved arl ’er got, bein’ a witch.... An’ when it come to savin’ of ’er, I dunno as Sir ’Ector done so tur’ble much! Oi be an ol’ ancient man, but oi bean’t nowise doddlish, an’ can save a witch as well as some young ’uns an’ better’n most—ah, that oi can!”
“I’m sure of it! And is she still alive?”
“That she be. Witches bean’t easy to kill an’ doan’t aften doi—not in Sussex, they doan’t. Oi been buryin’ folk arl my days an’ oi only buried one witch, an’ ’er only doied because she ’appened to drown, not being able to swim wi’ a stone round ’er neck, d’ye see——”
“A—a stone?” exclaimed my lady in tones of horror.
“Aye, a stone fur sure, my pretty. Toied ’un round ’er neck, they did, an’ ’ove ’er into the river, they did, an’ so ’er doied. But this were years an’ ages ago, when oi were younger. And ol’ Penelope be a tur’ble powerful witch—give me a spell agin the axey as done me arl manner o’ good.”
“Did she cure you by magic?”
“Lord bless y’r pretty eyes—no! There bean’t nobody nor nothink can cure oi, what wi’ that theer ol’ musket-ball o’ mine. But oi were moighty bad, an’ ’long come a man one day in a p’inted ’at an’ a gownd wi’ silver stars on to it an’ sold me a charm wrote on a three-carnered piece o’ paper wi’ these words as oi were to say three toimes over, marnin’, noon an’ noight:
Axey, axey oi defoi thee,