“To-morrow the charity of the Church hath resolved that she shall be had into the torture-chamber.”
I set my lips to the tankard, and drank long, to hide my face, and for that I was nigh swooning with a passion of fear and wrath.
“Thanks to St. George,” I said, “the end is nigh!”
“The end of the tankard,” quoth he, looking into it, “hath already come. You drink like a man of the Land Debatable.”
Yet I was in such case that, though by custom I drink little, the great draught touched not my brain, and did but give me heart.
“You might challenge at skinking that great Danish knight who was with us under Orleans, Sir Andrew Haggard was his name, and his bearings were . . . ” [{39}]
So he was running on, for he himself had drunk more than his share, when I brought him back to my matter.
“But as touching this Puzel, how may I have my view of her, that you graciously offered me?”
“My men change guard at curfew,” he said; “five come out and five go in, and I shall bid them seek you here at your lodgings. So now, farewell, and your revenge with the dice you shall have when so you will.”
“Nay, pardon me one moment: when relieve you the guard that enters at curfew?”