And again 'Lias gave the same cry, and stood half risen, his hands
on his staff, looking.

'What is it, 'Lias?' said David, eagerly; 'what is 't yo see?'

'Theer's my grandfeyther,' said 'Lias, almost in a whisper, 'an owd
Needham an his two brithers, an yoong Jack Needham's woife--her as
losst her babby--an yoong lads an lasses fro Clough End, childer
awmost, and t' coonstable, an Passon Maine--Ay--ay--yo've doon it!
Yo've doon it! She'll mak naw moor mischeef neets--she's gay quiet
now! T' watter's got her fasst enough!'

And, drawing himself up to his full height, the old man pointed a
quivering finger at the pool.

'Ay, it's got her--an your stones are tied fasst! Passon Maine says
she's safe--that yo'll see her naw moor--While holly sticks be
green, While stone on Kinder Scoot be seen.

But _I_ tell yo, Passon Maine _lees!_ I tell yo t' witch ull
_walk_--t' witch ull _walk!_'

For several seconds 'Lias stood straining forward--out of
himself--a tragic and impressive figure. Then, in a moment, from
that distance his weird gift had been re-peopling, something else
rose towards him--some hideous memory, as it seemed, of personal
anguish, personal fear. The exalted seer's look vanished, the
tension within gave way, the old man shrank together. He fell back
heavily on the stone, hiding his face in his hands, and muttering
to himself.