Nabs, o' Wiswall. Yo'n moind Wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut? Dunna
be feert, ey sey. Ey'n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an' you con
be down it i' a trice--an' along t' covert way be t' river soide to t'
mill."

But the abbot stirred not.

"Quick! quick!" implored Hal o' Nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot's
sleeve. "Every minute's precious. Dunna be feert. Ebil Croft, t' miller,
is below. Poor Cuthbert Ashbead would ha' been here i'stead o' meh if he
couldn; boh that accursed wizard, Nick Demdike, turned my hont agen him,
an' drove t' poike head intended for himself into poor Cuthbert's side.
They clapt meh i' a dungeon, boh Ebil monaged to get me out, an' ey then
swore to do whot poor Cuthbert would ha' done, if he'd been livin'--so
here ey am, lort abbut, cum to set yo free. An' neaw yo knoan aw abowt
it, yo con ha nah more hesitation. Cum, time presses, an ey'm feert o'
t' guard owerhearing us."

"I thank you, my good friend, from the bottom of my heart," replied the
abbot, rising; "but, however strong may be the temptation of life and
liberty which you hold out to me, I cannot yield to it. I have pledged
my word to the Earl of Derby to make no attempt to escape. Were the
doors thrown open, and the guard removed, I should remain where I am."

"Whot!" exclaimed Hal o' Nabs, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "yo
winnaw go, neaw aw's prepared. By th' Mess, boh yo shan. Ey'st nah go
back to Ebil empty-handed. If yo'n sworn to stay here, ey'n sworn to set
yo free, and ey'st keep meh oath. Willy nilly, yo shan go wi' meh, lort
abbut!"