“But I am belated here, good dame, and afraid of the French. And I will give thee the best bit of clay on my mare’s back,—pot,—pan,—pansion,—crock,—jug, or what thou wilt, for a night’s lodging.”
“Have you any little jars,—jars no longer than my hand?” asked she; for she used them in her trade, and had broken one of late: but to pay for one, she had neither money nor mind. So she agreed to let Hereward sleep there, for the value of two jars. “But what of that ugly brute of a horse of thine?”
“She will do well enough in the turf-shed.”
“Then thou must pay with a pannikin.”
“Ugh!” groaned Hereward; “thou drivest a hard bargain, for an Englishwoman, with a poor Englishman.”
“How knowest thou that I am English?”
“So much the better if thou art not,” thought Hereward; and bargained with her for a pannikin against a lodging for the horse in the turf-house, and a bottle of bad hay.
Then he went in, bringing his panniers with him with ostentatious care.
“Thou canst sleep there on the rushes. I have naught to give thee to eat.”
“Naught needs naught,” said Hereward; threw himself down on a bundle of rush, and in a few minutes snored loudly.