Out of all patience, Sukey Worseley at length exclaimed, “Ey should loike to see ye swum, crosswise, i’ th’ Calder, Jennet, as Nance Redferne war this efternoon.”

“May be ye would, Sukey,” replied the little girl, “boh eym nah so likely to be tried that way as yourself, lass; an if ey war swum ey should sink, while yo, wi’ your broad back and shouthers, would be sure to float, an then yo’d be counted a witch.”

“Heed her not, Sukey,” said Blackrod, unable to resist a laugh, though the poor girl was greatly discomfited by this personal allusion; “ye may ha’ a broad back o’ our own, an the broader the better to my mind, boh mey word on’t ye’ll never be ta’en fo a witch.  Yo’re far too comely.”

This assurance was a balm to poor Sukey’s wounded spirit, and she replied with a well-pleased smile, “Ey hope ey dunna look like one, Lorry.”

“Not a bit, lass,” said Blackrod, lifting a huge ale-cup to his lips.  “Your health, sweetheart.”

“What think ye then o’ Nance Redferne?” observed Jennet.  “Is she neaw comely?—­ay, comelier far than fat, fubsy Sukey here—­or than Nancy Holt, wi’ her yallo hure an frecklet feace—­an yet ye ca’ her a witch.”

“Ey ca’ thee one, theaw feaw little whean—­an the dowter—­an grandowter o’ one—­an that’s more,” cried Nancy.  “Freckles i’ your own feace, ye mismannert minx.”

“Ne’er heed her, Nance,” said Phil Rawson, putting his arm round the angry damsel’s waist, and drawing her gently down.  “Every one to his taste, an freckles an yellow hure are so to mine.  So dunna fret about it, an spoil your protty lips wi’ pouting.  Better ha’ freckles o’ your feace than spots o’ your heart, loike that ill-favort little hussy.”

“Dunna offend her, Phil,” said Nancy Holt, noticing with alarm the malignant look fixed upon her lover by Jennet.  “She’s dawngerous.”

“Firrups tak her!” replied Phil Eawson.  “Boh who the dole’s that?  Ey didna notice him efore, an he’s neaw one o’ our party.”

The latter observation was occasioned by the entrance of a tall personage, in the garb of a Cistertian monk, who issued from one of the doorways in the screen, and glided towards the upper table, attracting general attention and misgiving as he proceeded.  His countenance was cadaverous, his lips livid, and his eyes black and deep sunken in their sockets, with a bistre-coloured circle around them.  His frame was meagre and bony.  What remained of hair on his head was raven black, but either he was bald on the crown, or carried his attention to costume so far as to adopt the priestly tonsure.  His forehead was lofty and sallow, and seemed stamped, like his features, with profound gloom.  His garments were faded and mouldering, and materially contributed to his ghostly appearance.

“Who is it?” cried Sukey and Nance together.

But no one could answer the question.

“He dusna look loike a bein’ o’ this warld,” observed Blackrod, gaping with alarm, for the stout keeper was easily assailable on the side of superstition; “an there is a mowdy air about him, that gies one the shivers to see.  Ey’ve often heer’d say the Abbey is haanted; an that pale-feaced chap looks like one o’ th’ owd monks risen fro’ his grave to join our revel.”