"Peace be with ye, friends! What's all this?" said a hearty voice. Valerius entered; saw the face of the patient, and stopped short.
"Nicanor!" he exclaimed. "Why, I'm come for him. He should have been back last night. Hito—prince of overseers—hath a black mark against him. Drunk again?"
Nicodemus nodded casually. "Bide a bit, friend, and I'll have him in shape. He's awake now."
Nicanor, slowly recovering his sodden wits, looked at Valerius, recognizingly, opened his mouth to speak, found the exertion too great, and shut it again. He let his head sink back against Nicodemus. Presently, with his eyes closed, he said thickly:
"You, Valerius? What now?"
"I want you, my friend," said Valerius, promptly. "It would seem you forget the trifling fact that Hito commanded your return last night. While you wear the collar, you'll have to heed the word of him who holds the chain—mark you that. You're in for a flogging as it is—best not let your case get to higher quarters." He turned to Nicodemus. "Can we get him started, think you?"
Nicodemus let the shaggy head drop back into the bunk, and rose.
"Let him bide an hour and he'll be ready for you," he suggested. "Which is to say that he'll be able to walk, with help. Sit you down, comrade—the night's young yet."
He beckoned Valerius with him to the table, with a nod at Myleia. She brought cups and an ampulla of wine—not from among those upon the shelves. Valerius, with a grunt of satisfaction, pushed his sword out of his way and sat down. But voices at the door, a shout, a pounding of horses' hoofs, recalled Nicodemus to his duties as host. He signed to Valerius to help himself, and hurried to the door.
The twilight had deepened into dusk, through which the fires at the ford glowed redly. The air, sharp with the evening chill, was vibrant with sounds of preparation for the night. Outside the wine-shop door a group was gathered,—three men mounted, three others afoot. One of the latter, a slave, was calling lustily for admittance, beating with his staff upon the door.