“Good lorjus bless us!” exclaimed a sturdy hind, “we’n a protty king.  Furst he chops off his woife’s heaod, an then hongs aw t’ priests.  Whot’ll t’ warlt cum ’to?

“Eigh by t’ mess, whot win it cum to?” cried Ruchot o’ Roaph’s.  “But we darrna oppen owr mows fo’ fear o’ a gog.”

“Naw, beleady! boh eyst oppen moine woide enuff,” cried Ashbead; “an’ if a dozen o’ yo chaps win join me, eyn try to set t’ poor abbut free whon they brinks him here.”

“Ey’d as leef boide till to-morrow,” said Ruchot o’Roaph’s, uneasily.

“Eigh, thou’rt a timmersome teyke, os ey towd te efore,” replied Ashbead.  “But whot dust theaw say, Hal o’ Nabs?” he added, to the sturdy hind who had recently spoken.

“Ey’n spill t’ last drop o’ meh blood i’ t’ owd abbut’s keawse,” replied Hal o’ Nabs.  “We winna stond by, an see him hongt loike a dog.  Abbut Paslew to t’ reskew, lads!”

“Eigh, Abbut Paslew to t’ reskew!” responded all the others, except Ruchot o’ Roaph’s.

“This must be prevented,” muttered a voice near them.  And immediately afterwards a tall man quitted the group.

“Whoa wor it spoake?” cried Hal o’ Nabs.  “Oh, ey seen, that he-witch, Nick Demdike.”

“Nick Demdike here!” cried Ashbead, looking round in alarm.  “Has he owerheert us?”

“Loike enow,” replied Hal o’ Nabs.  “But ey didna moind him efore.”

“Naw ey noather,” cried Ruchot o’ Roaph’s, crossing himself, and spitting on the ground.  “Owr Leady o’ Whalley shielt us fro’ t’ warlock!”

“Tawkin o’ Nick Demdike,” cried Hal o’ Nabs, “yo’d a strawnge odventer wi’ him t’ neet o’ t’ great brast o’ Pendle Hill, hadna yo, Cuthbert?”

“Yeigh, t’ firrups tak’ him, ey hadn,” replied Ashbead.  “Theawst hear aw abowt it if t’ will.  Ey wur sent be t’ abbut down t’ hill to Owen o’ Gab’s, o’ Perkin’s, o’ Dannel’s, o’ Noll’s, o’ Oamfrey’s orchert i’ Warston lone, to luk efter him.  Weel, whon ey gets ower t’ stoan wa’, whot dun yo think ey sees! twanty or throtty poikemen stonding behint it, an they deshes at meh os thick os leet, an efore ey con roor oot, they blintfowlt meh, an clap an iron gog i’ meh mouth.  Weel, I con noather speak nor see, boh ey con use meh feet, soh ey punses at ’em reet an’ laft; an be mah troath, lads, yood’n a leawght t’ hear how they roart, an ey should a roart too, if I couldn, whon they began to thwack me wi’ their raddling pows, and ding’d meh so abowt t’ heoad, that ey fell i’ a swownd.  Whon ey cum to, ey wur loyin o’ meh back i’ Rimington Moor.  Every booan i’ meh hoide wratcht, an meh hewr war clottert wi’ gore, boh t’ eebond an t’ gog wur gone, soh ey gets o’ meh feet, and daddles along os weel os ey con, whon aw ot wunce ey spies a leet glenting efore meh, an dawncing abowt loike an awf or a wull-o’-whisp.  Thinks ey, that’s Friar Rush an’ his lantern, an he’ll lead me into a quagmire, soh ey stops a bit, to consider where ey’d getten, for ey