Cosmo was a brave boy where duty was concerned, but conscience and imagination were each able to make him tremble.
To tremble, and to turn the back, are, however, very different things: of the latter, the thing deserving to be called cowardice, Cosmo knew nothing; his hair began to rise upon his head, but that head he never hid beneath the bed-clothes.

He sat and stared into the gloom, where the old woman lay in her huge chair, muttering at irregular intervals.
Presently she began to talk a little more continuously.

And now also Cosmo's heart had got a little quieter, and no longer making such a noise in his ears, allowed him to hear better.

After a few words seemingly unconnected, though probably with a perfect dependence of their own, she began to murmur something that sounded like verses.

Cosmo soon perceived that she was saying the same thing over and over, and at length he had not only made out every word of the few lines, but was able to remember them.