An’ now you’re done, like an ended tune.
Where’s that woman? Ah, give it me quick,
Food at her head an’ her poor, still feet....
There’s plenty, fool! D’ye think the wench
Had so many sins for himself to eat?
Take up your cloak an’ hand me mine....
Are we fetchin’ him? Eh, for sure!
An’ you’ll come with me for all your quakes,
Clear to his cave across the moor!
—Margot, dearie, don’t look so scared,