'Tis tu late."
"No, not that, but I can--I'm in God's hand for this. Us be tools, an' He
uses all for His awn ends. I sees whereto I was born now, an' the future be
writ clear afore my eyes. Thicky madman theer said the word; an' I lay the
Lard put it in en for my better light. Er said 'Let'n come home an' call
the devil as did it to account.' He was thinkin' o' me when he said it,
though he dedn' knaw me."
"Iss fay, 'tis generally allowed he be the lips o' God A'mighty now. But
you, Joe--doan't 'e waste life an' hard-won money huntin' down a damned
man. Leave en to his deserts."
"'Tis I that be his deserts, wummon--'tis I, in the hand o' the God o'
Vengeance. That's my duty now standin' stark ahead o' me. The Lard's
pleased to pay all my prayers an' good livin' like this here. His will be
done, an' so it shall to the dregs of it; an' if I be for the pit arter
all, theer's wan livin' as gaws along wi' me."
"That's worse than a fool's thot. Bide till you'm grawed cool anyways. 'Tis
very hard this fallin' 'pon a virtuous member like what you be; but 'tedn'
a straange tale 'tall. The man was like other men, I doubt; the maid was
like other maids. You thot differ'nt. You was wrong; an' you'll be wrong
again to break your heart now. Let en go--'tis best."
"Let en go! Blast en--I'll let heaven go fust! Us'll see what a wronged
sawl's patience can do now. Us'll see what the end of the road'll shaw! O
God o' the Righteous, fester this here man's bones in his body, an' eat his
life out of en wi' fiery worms! Tear his heartstrings, God o' Hosts, rob en
of all he loves, stamp his foul mind wi' memories till he shrieks for death
an' judgment; punish his seed forever; turn his prayers into swearin';
torture en, rot en sawl an' body till you brings me to en.
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