He was sat in the snug, a pot of ale before him, scarce tasted; a youth not more than twenty–one or two years old, with pale face, long lank dark hair that fell on either side a high and narrow brow. His eye was dark and melancholy, his lips somewhat thin. His face was bare of beard, of an oval shape, and womanish. He had a low, soft voice, and spoke more town like than I was used to. But he had a sweet smile and a winning, caressing way that partly irritated me because I thought it out of place in a man. But it was very hard to stand against all the same.

“Well owd Roberson wouldn’t let him [John] die i’ peace, but wer all th’ time naggin’ him to confess [i.e. grass on his Luddite friends]. Then when Booth knew his end were near, he called old Roberson to stand ovver him, an’ th’ owd sinner’s face lit up wi’ glee, an’ he stepped up to John as brisk as a bee.”

“You see, gentlemen, the power of the Church! And now, my good man.”

“Can yo’ keep a secret, sir?” said John, in a whisper; but all were so still yo’ could have heard a pin drop. Even Sammy Hartley, who wer’ deein’ fast, stopped moanin’, they say; tho’ that mun be either accident or fancy.”

“Can yo’ keep a secret, sir?” whispered John.

“I can, I can,” said th’ parson.

“An’ so can I,” said John, wi’ a smile, an he put his head back an’ never spak’ no more; an’, oh! Ben, when aw talk on it aw’m fit to blubber like a child. He wer’ a rare un, wer’ John.”