Pet began to laugh.
“Your god-daughter!” she shrieked. “And who is she, you mother of witches? You’re not talking of my granddaughter, are you—you tike?”
Nan shook her stick at her fiercely.
“Your granddaughter! You mange-struck man-stealer!” she ejaculated.
“Man-stealer!” Pet shrieked in her fury. “You jade, you miserable, jealous jade—still whining about your lover as you call him, you old she-goat. My Ben never loved you—your lover! You’re as old as the Island. What do you want with lovers?”
Nan stood there, a tall, imposing figure, her black rags gently stirring in the wind.
“You lie, Pet Salt! In your rotting throat you lie,” she said calmly. “I am not so old as you say, not so old as Ben—and he loved me well—and would have wed me had not you stolen him——”
“I stole? Marry, hell-kite, I stole in truth! I stole when he came begging to my door and beseeching me to save him from you? I stole, you vile devil!”
“He did not!” Nan spoke hotly.
“Indeed, did he not, ronyon?” Pet was foaming at the mouth in her anger. “Ay, he did, he crawled to my boat and said on his knees: ‘Oh, save me, my own Pet o’ the saltings, save me from yon scabby wanton who waits for me!’”