"When I was yet a long-hair'd boy, for even then I liv'd a pleasant life, I had a minion, and he dy'd: He was (so help me Hercules) a pearl, a paragon, nay perfection it self: But when the poor mother lamented him, and we also were doing the same, some witches got round the house on a sudden, you'd have taken them for hounds hunting a hare. We had then in the house a Cappadocian, a tall fellow, stout and hardy, that would not have stept an inch out of his way for Jupiter. He boldly drew his sword, and wrapping his coat about his left arm, leaped out of the house, and as it might be here, (no hurt to the thing I touch) ran a woman clean through. We heard a pitiful groan, but not to lye, saw none of them. Our champion came in and threw himself on a bed, but all black and blue, so he had been trosh'd with flails; for it seems some ill hand had touched him. We shut the door, and went on with our mourning; but the mother taking her son in her arms, and stroaking him, found nothing but a bolster of straw; it had neither heart, entrals, nor any thing, for the fairies belike had stollen him out of his cradle, and left that of straw instead of him. Give me credit, I beseech ye, women are craftier than we are, play their tricks by night, and turn every thing topsy-turvy. After this our tall fellow never came to his colour again, but in a few days died raving-mad." We all wondred, as not doubting what he said, and kissing the table in reverence to him, pray'd the privilege of the night, and that our places might be kept till we returned.