"I forbid you to say another word. The Countess has drunk the water there, and your cock-and-bull stories will frighten her into fits. Confess it is all made up for the benefit of travellers like ourselves."
"Yes, your honour!" the innkeeper stammered, his knees shaking; "I confess it is mere talk, but we all be—be—lieve it."
"That will do—go!" the Count cried; and the innkeeper, terrified out of his wits, flew out of the room.
Some minutes later mine host received a peremptory summons to appear before the Count, who was alone and scowling horribly, in the best parlour. He had barely got inside the room before the Count burst out wrathfully:—
"I've sent for you, sir, in order to impress upon you the fact that if either you or your minions mention one word about that brook to the Countess, or to her servants—mark that—I will have the breath flogged out of your body and your tongue snipped. Do you hear?"
"Y—yes, your honour," the innkeeper cried. "I ful—fully un—understand, and if her ladyship asks me any—anything abou—out the br—br—brook, I will lie."
"Which won't trouble you much, eh?"
"N—n—o, your honour! I mean y—yes, your honour! It will be a burden on my con—conscience, but I will do anything to pl—please your honour."
The interview then terminated, and the innkeeper, bathed in perspiration and wishing his lot in life anything but what it was, hastened to prepare dinner.
"I hope nothing dreadful will happen to me; I feel that something will," the Countess said, as she let down her long beautiful hair that night. "Carl, why did you let me drink the water?"