Hazel: I see no such signs.
Mineog: Is it in my hand you see them? Is it lame or is it freezed-brittle like ice?
Hazel: It is as warm and as good as my own.
Mineog: Let me take a hold of you till you will tell me has it the feel of a dead man's grip.
Hazel: I know that it has not.
Mineog: Is it shaking like a bunch of timber shavings?
Hazel: Not at all, not at all.
Mineog: It should be my hearing that is failing from me, or that I am crippled and have lost my walk.
Hazel: You are roaring and bawling without sense.
Mineog: Let the Champion go to flitters before I will die to please it! I will not give in to it driving me out of the world before my hour is spent! It would hardly ask that of a man would be of no use and no account, or even of a beast of any consequence.