Many meetings with 'Lias on the moorside, which the old seer made alive for both of them--the plundering of 'Lias's books, whence he had drawn the brown 'Josephus' in his pocket--these had done more than anything else to stock the boy's head with its present strange jumble of knowledge and ideas.

_Knowledge_, indeed, it scarcely was, but rather the materials for a certain kind of excitement.
'Wal, Davy, did yo hear that ?' said 'Lias, presently, looking round on the boy with a doubtful countenance, after Cromwell had given an unctuous and highly Biblical account of the slaughter at Drogheda and its reasons.
'How mony did he say he killed at that place ?' asked the boy sharply.
'Thoosands,' said Dawson, solemnly.

'Theer was naw mercy asked nor gi'en.

And those wha escaped knockin on t' yead were aw sold as slaves--every mon jock o' them!' A strong light of anger showed itself in David's face.
'Then he wor a cantin murderer! Yo mun tell him so! If I'd my way, he'd hang for 't!' 'Eh, laddie, they were nowt but rebels an Papists,' said the old man, complacently.
'Don't yo becall Papists!' cried David, fiercely, facing round upon him.

'My mither wor a Papist.' A curious change of expression appeared on 'Lias's face.