“‘Fool,’ says she, quite in a passion, ‘you’ve put yourself under a ruined wall, and will be crushed to the dust by the tumble.’
“‘Wrong again,’ says I, ‘for master has had the whole building repaired.’
“‘Blind mole, you will take no warning; perhaps because you don’t believe—see there!’ And when I looked in to where she pointed, sure enough I sees ten or a dozen stout chaps all a-sharping of their swords upon great grinding-stones, at the other end of the house.
“‘What’s all them fellows arter?’ says I.
“‘Blood,’ says she.
“‘Blood and wounds!’ says I, ‘I never heared such a woman. ’Clect, at Oxford, hearing of an old Roman Catholic lady they called the Civil, as spoke in that ’ere fashion, and was a dealer in books and stationery, but, cuss me, if you doesn’t beat her hollow. Whose blood do you mean, ma’am?’
“‘His who calls himself Ben-na-Groich.’”
“Oh, brother Thomas, did you ever hear of the like?” shuddered Miss Alice.
“A witch,” said the gentleman thus appealed to, with a very unsuccessful effort to appear disdainful. “What more, Copus?—did she say anything else?”
“Lots more, but I’ve nearly forgotten it.”