“Fool or none, sir; honest gentlemen don't give maidens Agnuses. I've put him in; and if you want him let out again, you must come and do it yourself, for my conscience is against it, sir. If the Lord's enemies are delivered into my hand, I'm answerable, sir,” went on Yeo as Amyas hurried out with him. “'Tis written, 'If any let one of them go, his life shall be for the life of him.'”
So Amyas ran out, pulled back the cart grumbling, opened the door, and began a string of apologies to—his cousin Eustace.
Yes, here he was, with such a countenance, half foolish, half venomous, as reynard wears when the last spadeful of earth is thrown back, and he is revealed sitting disconsolately on his tail within a yard of the terriers' noses.
Neither cousin spoke for a minute or two. At last Amyas—
“Well, cousin hide-and-seek, how long have you added horse-stealing to your other trades?”
“My dear Amyas,” said Eustace, very meekly, “I may surely go into an inn stable without intending to steal what is in it.”
“Of course, old fellow,” said Amyas, mollified, “I was only in jest. But what brings you here? Not prudence, certainly.”
“I am bound to know no prudence save for the Lord's work.”
“That's giving away Agnus Deis, and deceiving poor heathen wenches, I suppose,” said Yeo.
Eustace answered pretty roundly—