'It will buy bread,' she croaked.
'But who is there to sell it, good mistress ?' I asked.
'They sell it at Fovant, and they sell it at Hindon,' she answered.

'I bide here o' days, but I travel at night.' 'I warrant she does, and on a broomstick,' quoth Saxon; 'but tell us, mother, who is it who hangs above your head ?' 'It is he who slew my youngest born,' cried the old woman, casting a malignant look at the mummy above her, and shaking a clenched hand at it which was hardly more fleshy than its own.

'It is he who slew my bonny boy.

Out here upon the wide moor he met him, and he took his young life from him when no kind hand was near to stop the blow.

On that ground there my lad's blood was shed, and from that watering hath grown this goodly gallows-tree with its fine ripe fruit upon it.