“But 't was stole out o' my bag,” she said.
“N-not by me,” he made reply. “An I had chose, I might have s-stole it many a time in a s-solitary place where were no eye to see me take it. I m-might have s-sold it t-ten time over.”
“Then who stole it?” she cried. “Was 't a jest? A sorry jest, God wot! Nor no jest, neither, for they let me go on my way. Did they know?”
“L-let well alone, mistress!” said the peddler. “He-he-here 's the horn.”
“Nay, but I will be told,” she persisted. “What 's this thou 'rt keeping from me? I 'll go back to the wood and bid Symme Tipuppe rede the riddle. He was a kindly man.”
She turned away, but the peddler stayed her with his hand.
“He-hear then, an thou wilt,” said he. “But I warn thee, go not b-back.”
So he told her the tale of how they coveted the horn, and how he made shift to save it for her; and she listened with a still face. At the end she dropped her head upon her arms and wept silently a long while.
“L-look up,—take heart!” said the peddler. “The ho-horn 's safe.”
“But they are thieves and liars,” she answered wearily. “What hope?”