MICHAEL: You surely never mean to say ... BELL: I do. More than a little for you young know-alls to learn, When you meet Judith Ellershaw: for havers As it sounds to your young lugs, the world went round, And one or two things happened, before you were born. Yet, none of us kens what life’s got up his sleeve: He’s played so long: and had a deal of practice, Since he sat down with Adam: he’s always got A trump tucked out of sight, that takes the trick. But, son, you’ve lived with me for all these years; And yet ken me so little? Grannie’s mutch-frills! I’d as lief rig myself in widow’s weeds For my fancy man, who may have departed this life, For all I ken or care. MICHAEL: Come, hold your tongue: Enough of shameless talk. I’m master, now: And I’ll not have Ruth hear this radgy slack. If you’ve no shame yourself, I’ll find a way To bridle your loose tongue: so mind yourself: I’ll have no tinker’s tattle. BELL: The tinker’s brat Rides the high-horse now, mounted on prime mutton. Ruth, lass, you’re safe, you’re safe--if safety’s all: He’ll never guess your heart, unless you blab. I’ve never told him mine: I’ve kept him easy, Till he’d found someone else to victual him, And make his bed, and darn his hose; and you Seem born to take the job out of my hands. RUTH: But I’d not come between you ... BELL: Think not, lass? I bear you no ill-will: you set me free. I’m a wildcat, all bristling fur and claws: At Krindlesyke, I’ve been a wildcat, caged: And Michael never twigged! Son, don’t you mind The day we came--was I a tabby then? The day we came here, with no thought to bide, Once we had got the plunder; and were trapped Between these four white walls by a dead woman? She held me--forced my feet into her shoes-- Held me for your sake. Ay: there seemed some link ’Twixt your dead grannie and you, too strong for me To break; though it’s been strained to the snapping-point, Times out of mind, whenever a hoolet’s screech Sang through my blood; or poaching foxes barked On a shiny night to the cackle of wild geese, Travelling from sea to sea far overhead: Or whenever, waking in the quiet dark, The ghosts of horses whinneyed in my heart. Ghosts! Nay, I’ve been the mare between the limmers Who hears the hunters gallop gaily by; Or, rather, the hunter, bogged in a quaking moss, Fankit in sluthery strothers, belly-deep, With the tune of the horn tally-hoing through her blood, As the field sweeps out of sight. MICHAEL: Wildcats and hunters-- A mongrel breed, eh, Ruth?