"I saw it, I heard it myself, and others also have seen that she is mad."
"Cannot I speak to her?"
"How can you? That's just the mischief of it, that she cannot be spoken to."
"You rascal, I tell you your master is at home. I am sure of it."
Long-legs shrugged his shoulders and began to whistle.
"Look ye here, my son," said Gerzson, scarcely able to contain himself, "the fist that you see in my pocket here is pulling the trigger of a revolver and I have a jolly good mind to send a bullet in between your onion chawing teeth, so I should advise you not to try any of your tom-foolery on me. On this occasion I have not come to pay your master a visit but for other reasons. Speak the truth, sirrah! Is your master at home or is he not?"
"I have just told you that there is not a soul at home except her ladyship, and she is mad."
At that same moment Gerzson thought he heard a fiddle in the upper story.
"What, music here!" he cried.
The fellow laughed.