The man looked at him respectfully, and raising his hand and staff, touched his barrad, and replied:
“A few yarribs, your honor.”
“Yarribs? What the deuce is that?”
“Why, the yarribs that grow, sir—to cure the people when they are sick.”
“O, you mean herbs.”
“I do, sir, and I gather them too for the potecars.”
“O, then you are what they call a herbalist.”
“I believe I am, sir, if you put that word against (to) a man that gethers yarribs.”
“Yes, that's what I mean. You sell them to the apothecaries, I suppose?”
“I do a little, sir, but I use the most of them myself. Sorra much the potecars knows about the use o' them; they kill more than they cure wid 'em, and calls them that understands what they're good for rogues and quacks. May the Lord forgive them this day! Amin, acheernah! (Amen, O Lord!)”