And without further parley down they sat upon the brown earth, a strange company, while the hermit brought from his cave a great dish of dried meat, and a bowl of parched peas, and lastly an earthen jar of water, cool and sparkling. The beggar made as if to put his hand to the dish of meat, when the hermit stayed him.
“An it please you,” he said gravely, “we will thank the Christ who was born this day.”
The beggar withdrew his hand. The fat merchant, who had thought to put forth his own, withheld it. With bowed head they waited until the brief prayer was done, then set to as hungry men, one and all.
“Tough, but grateful to an empty stomach, is thy goat’s meat,” said the man of the broad brow. “But tell me, Father Hermit, thou didst return thanks for dried meat and peas: dost in very truth regard this mean repast as a Christmas feast?”
“That do I!” returned the hermit vigorously.
“That do I not!” said the other in a sneer half hidden in his beard, “no more do these my fellow-guests, I warrant you. Tell me, friend knight, hast any thought of Christmas in thy mind?”
“Nay,” said the knight frankly; “only of a snow-white, crisp Christmas at home.”
“Sir Beggar? Is this a Christmas joy to thee?”
“Nay,” said the beggar with a whine; “but were I in my own town—ah, there beggar-folk feast at Christmas-tide at the cost of the open-handed rich!”
“Sir Merchant, what of thee? Is this Christmas to thy mind?”