“What kind of a man was your husband?”
“Why, indeed, as handsome a vagabone as you'd see in a day's travellin'.”
“Mention his name; I can tell you nothing till I hear it.”
“He's called Rantin' Rody, the thief, and a great schamer he is among the girls.”
“Ranting Rody—let me see,” and here he looked very solemnly into his book—“yes; I see—a halter. My good woman, you had better not inquire after him; he was born to be hanged.”
“But when will that happen, sir?”
“Your fate and his are so closely united, that, whenever he swings, you will swing. You will both hang together from the same gallows; so that, in point of fact, you need not give yourself much trouble about the time of his suspension, because I see it written here in the book of fate, that the same hangman who swings you off, will swing him off at the same moment. You'll 'lie lovingly together; and when he puts his tongue out at those who will attend his execution, so will you; and when he dances his last jig in their presence, so will you. Are you now satisfied?”
“Troth, and I'm very fond o' the vagabone, although he's the worst friend I ever had. But you won't tell me where he is? and I know why, because, with all your pretended knowledge, the devil a know you know.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Ay, cocksure.”