“And a hundred,” whispered Aylward.
“And a hundred,” said Nigel, blushing at his own greed.
“Well, well, take a hundred!” cried the merchant. “Fleece me, skin me, leave me a loser, and take for your wares the full hundred!”
“I should be shamed forever if I were to treat you so badly,” said Nigel. “You have spoken me fair, and I would not grind you down. Therefore, I will gladly take one hundred—”
“And fifty,” whispered Aylward.
“And fifty,” said Nigel.
“By Saint John of Beverley!” cried the merchant. “I came hither from the North Country, and they are said to be shrewd at a deal in those parts; but I had rather bargain with a synagogue full of Jews than with you, for all your gentle ways. Will you indeed take no less than a hundred and fifty? Alas! you pluck from me my profits of a month. It is a fell morning’s work for me. I would I had never seen you!” With groans and lamentations he paid the gold pieces across the counter, and Nigel, hardly able to credit his own good fortune, gathered them into the leather saddle-bag.
A moment later with flushed face he was in the street and pouring out his thanks to Aylward.
“Alas, my fair lord! the man has robbed us now,” said the archer. “We could have had another twenty had we stood fast.”
“How know you that, good Aylward?”