"I must see him." "Noa sooner said than done," cried Ashbead, "for, be t' Lort Harry, ey see him stonding be yon moss poo' o' top t' hill, though how he'n getten theer t' Dule owny knoas." And he pointed out a tall dark figure standing near a little pool on the summit of the mountain, about a hundred yards from them.
"Talk of ill, and ill cometh," observed Father Haydocke.

"And see, the wizard hath a black hound with him! It may be his wife, in that likeness." "Naw, ey knoas t' hount reet weel, Feyther Haydocke," replied the forester; "it's a Saint Hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert.

Odds loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit I war speaking on." "I like not the appearance of the knave at this juncture," said the abbot; "yet I wish to confront him, and charge him with his midemeanours." "Hark; he sings," cried Father Haydocke.

And as he spoke a voice was heard chanting,-- "One shall sit at a solemn feast, Half warrior, half priest, The greatest there shall be the least." "The very ditty I heard," cried Father Eastgate; "but list, he has more of it." And the voice resumed,-- "He shall be rich, yet poor as me, Abbot, and Earl of Poverty.
Monk and soldier, rich and poor, He shall be hang'd at his own door." Loud derisive laughter followed the song.
"By our Lady of Whalley, the knave is mocking us," cried the abbot; "send a bolt to silence him, Cuthbert." The forester instantly bent his bow, and a quarrel whistled off in the direction of the singer; but whether his aim were not truly taken, or he meant not to hit the mark, it is certain that Demdike remained untouched.

The reputed wizard laughed aloud, took off his felt cap in acknowledgment, and marched deliberately down the side of the hill.
"Thou art not wont to miss thy aim, Cuthbert," cried the abbot, with a look of displeasure.