"Will you sell me the horse?" he demanded.
She hesitated. Around them danced the shadows of the kettle-gourmands:
"A kern and a drole, a varlet and a blade
A drab and a rep, a skit and a jade—"
sang the street poet; the dwarf and the morio (a lilliputian and Gulliver) fought a mimic combat; the juggler and the clown, who could eat no more, were keeping time to a chorus by beating with their empty trenchers on the table.
"Sell you the horse? For what?" asked the gipsy.
"For five gold pieces."
"A fool with five gold pieces!" she exclaimed, incredulously.
"Here! You may see them." And he opened a purse he carried at his girdle.
"Do not let them know," she said, hurriedly. "They would kill you and—"
"You would not get the money," he added, significantly. "If you act quickly, find me a horse and let me go; it is you, not they, who will profit."