Hazel: You had the chin-cough passed and you rising. We were cut at the one time for the pock.
Mineog: A disease to be allotted to you it would find you out, and you maybe up twenty mile in the air!
Hazel: Ah, what disease could have you swept in the course of the next two days?
Mineog: That is what I'm after saying—unless you might have murder in your mind?
Hazel: Ah, what murder!
Mineog: What way are you thinking to do away with me? To shoot me with the trigger of a gun and to give me shortening of life?
Hazel: The trigger of a gun! God bless it, I never fingered such a thing in the length of my life!
Mineog: To take aim at me and destroy me; to shoot me in forty halves like a crow in the time of the wheat!
Hazel: Oh, now, don't say a thing like that!
Mineog: Or to drown me maybe in the river, enticing me across the rotten plank of the bridge. (Seizing bottle.) Will you tell me on the virtue of your oath, is death lurking in that sherry wine?