Symme dried his eyes and snickered.
“The white-faced sister o' the lad must needs see the horn,” Nicholas continued. “Symme here would have hindered; but no, Calote put her hand in the bag and plucked out—ha, ha!”
They laughed, all three, and the peddler knit his brows.
“What next?” quoth he.
“'T was plain the horn was stolen, but who cared lay claim to be a thief?‘ went on Nicholas. ’Thou wert away,—we fixed the theft o' thee.”
“I thank ye of your courtesy,” said the peddler.
“Nay, naught 's to fear,” Symme assured him; “she 's gone.”
“Gone!” cried the peddler, leaping to his feet.
“Yea, to find thee and punish.”
“Which way,—not by Chester?”