“Nay, my Yolande,” cried the Duchess, “hast forgot old Mopsa, my foster-mother, that, being a wise-woman, fools decry as witch, and my ten grave and learned guardians have banished therefor? Hast forgot my loved and faithful Mopsa that is truly the dearest, gentlest, wisest witch that e'er witched rogue or fool? But O Mopsa, wise mother—would'st thou might plague and bewitch in very truth yon base caitiff knight, Sir Agramore of Biename!”
“'Tis done, loved daughter, 'tis done!” chuckled the Witch.
“He groaneth,
He moaneth,
He aileth,
He waileth,
Lying sighing,
Nigh to dying,
Oho,
I know
'Tis so.
With bones right sore,
Both 'hind and fore,
Sir Agramore
Doth ache all o'er.
“He aileth sore yet waileth more—oho! I know, I have seen—in the chalk, in the ink, in the smoke—I looked and saw
“Sir Agramore,
By bold outlaw,
Bethwacked most sore
As told before—”
“Nay, but, good Mopsa, how may this be? Sir Agramore rideth armed yonder, plain to my sight.”
“Child, I have told thee sooth,” croaked the Witch. “Have patience, watch and be silent, and shalt grow wise as old Mopsa—mayhap—in time.
“For, 'tis written in the chalk,
Sore is he and may not walk.
O, sing heart merrily!
I have seen within the smoke
Bones bethwacked by lusty stroke,
Within the ink I looked and saw,
Swathed in clouts, Sir Agramore;
Dread of him for thee is o'er,
By reason of a bold outlaw.
Sing, heart, and joyful be!”
“Go to, Mopsa, thou'rt mad!” quoth the Duchess. “For yonder is this hated lord very strong and hale, and in well-being whiles thou dost rave! Truly thou'rt run mad, methinks!”
But the old Witch only mumbled and mowed, and cracked her finger-bones as is the custom of witches.