“By the vice-baillie's,” said the constable.
“The vice-baillie? Alas! what have I, a stranger, done to offend a vice-baillie? For this charge of sorcery must be a blind. No sorcerer am I; but a poor true lad far from his home.”
This vague shift disgusted the officer. “Show him the capias, Jacques,” said he.
Jacques held out the writ in both hands about a yard and a half from Gerard's eye; and at the same moment the large constable suddenly pinned him; both officers were on tenterhooks lest the prisoner should grab the document, to which they attached a superstitious importance.
But the poor prisoner had no such thought. Query whether he would have touched it with the tongs. He just craned out his neck and read it, and to his infinite surprise found the vice-bailiff who had signed the writ was the friendly alderman. He took courage and assured his captor there was some error. But finding he made no impression, demanded to be taken before the alderman.
“What say you to that, Jacques?”
“Impossible. We have no orders to take him before his worship. Read the writ!”
“Nay, but good kind fellows, what harm can it be? I will give you each an ecu.”
“Jacques, what say you to that?”
“Humph! I say we have no orders not to take him to his worship. Read the writ!”