"Severity!" said the fellow, with a kind of groan, I wish you had had my dreams when I first came to this dog-hole, and tried to sleep among the dry seaweed.—First, there was that d-d fellow there, with his broken back, sprawling as he did when I hurled the rock over atop on him—ha, ha, you would have sworn he was lying on the floor where you stand, wriggling like a crushed frog—and then—"
"Nay, my friend," said Glossin, interrupting him, what signifies going over this nonsense?—If you are turned chicken-hearted, why, the game's up, that's all—the game's up with us both."
"Chicken-hearted?—No. I have not lived so long upon the account to start at last, neither for Devil nor Dutchman."
Well then, take another schnaps—the cold's at your heart still.—And now tell me, are any of your old crew with you?"
"Nein—all dead, shot, hanged, drowned, and damned. Brown was the last—all dead, but Gipsy Gab, and he would go off the country for a spill of money—or he'll be quiet for his own sake—or old Meg, his aunt, will keep him quiet for hers."
"Which Meg?"
"Meg Merrilies, the old devil's limb of a gipsy witch."
"Is she still alive?'
"Yaw."
"And in this country?"