“He hasn’t got one.”
Shame, false shame, conquered Martin’s repugnance. He threw one of his few coins down, and Ralph did the same.
“You throw first—six and four—ten. Here goes—I have only two threes, the marks are yours.”
“Nay, I don’t want them.”
“Take them and be hanged. D’ye think I can’t spare a mark?”
“Fighting, dicing, drinking,” and then came to Martin’s mind the words of Adam de Maresco, uttered that very morning, and now he determined to go at once at any cost, and turned to the door.
“Nay, we are all going to see thee safe home. The boves boreales may be grazing in the streets.”
“I hear them! Burr! burr! burr!”
Down the stairs they all staggered. Martin felt so overcome as he emerged into the air that he did not know at first how to walk straight, yet he had not drunk half so much as the rest.
“Ce n’est que le premier pas qui coute.”