"Nothing," said the sheriff, faintly.
"Ho, ho!" laughed the wrinkled crone. "The man of law is forgetful. You, Dommerar, search him, and see if he speaks the truth."
A sandy-haired little fellow advanced at the summons, and rifled the pockets of the sheriff with a dexterity which proved him an adept in the business. A teacher of music would have envied his fingering. Having caused the pockets of the sheriff to disgorge, he thus, in the canting language, enumerated their contents:—
"The moabite's ribbin runs thin, (the sheriff's cash runs low.) He has no mint, (gold,) and only a mopus or two."
"Fool!" said the queen, "has he no paper?"
"Ay, ay, missus, here's his fiddle," (writ,) was the answer.
"Give it me," cried the queen. "Here, you patrico, our eyes are bad. Read this scrawl, and acquaint us with the contents."
The patrico, or hedge priest, a fellow in a rusty, black suit, with a beard of three weeks' growth, bleared eyes, and a red, Bardolph nose, took the writ, which he had more difficulty in reading than Tony Lumpkin, when he received the letter of Hastings. At first, he held it upside down, then reversed it, looking at it at arm's length, and then gave it a closer scrutiny. He finally gave it as his opinion, that it empowered the queer-cuffin (so he termed the sheriff) to seize upon the so called queen of the gypsies, accused of the crime of murder, and also to apprehend her followers. When he had concluded, the old crone snatched the writ from his hand, and, tearing it to pieces, flung the fragments into the face of the sheriff.
"Take him away," said she, "and leave us alone with the sexton of St. Hubert's. Guard him well, for we wish to show him how we administer justice among us. We will be judge and jury, and our upright man shall be the executioner."
She waved her tawny hand with the air of a princess dismissing her courtiers, and her mandate was obeyed. She was left alone with the sexton of St. Hubert's. Looking him steadily in the face, she said,—