It's bad the cusser was your
feyther though.'
'But why?' I asked.
'There's nobody can't hurt you and them you're fond on as your own
breed can. As my poor mammy used to say, "For good or for ill you
must dig deep to bury your daddy." But you know, brother, the wust o'
this job is that it's a trushul as has been stole.'
'A trushul?'
'What you call a cross. There's nothin' in the world so strong for
cussin' and blessin' as a trushul, unless the stars shinin' in the
river or the hand in the clouds is as strong. Why, I tell you there's
nothin' a trushul can't do, whether it's curin' a man as is bit by a
sap, or wipin' the very rainbow out o' the sky by jist layin' two
sticks crossways, or even curin' the cramp in your legs by jist
settin' your shoes crossways; there's nothin' for good or bad a
trushul _can't_ do if it likes. Hav'n't you never heer'd o' the
dukkeripen o' the trushul shinin' in the sunset sky when the light
o' the sinkin' sun shoots up behind a bar o' clouds an' makes a kind
o fiery cross? But to go and steal a trushul out of a dead man's
tomb--why, it's no wonder as the Wynnes is cussed, feyther and
child.
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