“I’ve a bill of summons against you. On pain of cursing, see that you are to-morrow before the archdeacon, to answer to the court.”
“God help me,” says the poor old woman, in great distress. “I have been ill a long time, and cannot walk so far, and to ride[131] would kill me, my side pricks so. May I not ask for a libel,[132] and answer there by my procurator whatever there is against me?”
“Yes,” says the Summoner, “pay me—let’s see—twelve pence, and I will let you off. I shall not get much profit out of that. My master gets it, and not I. Make haste and give me twelve pence—I can’t wait.”
“Twelve pence!” said the poor widow. “Now, heaven help me out of this. I have not so much as twelve pence in the whole wide world. You know that I am old and poor. Rather give me alms.”
“Nay, then,” cries the hard-hearted Summoner, “I will not let you off, even if you die of it.”
“Alas!” says she, “I am not guilty.”
“Pay me!” cried he, “or I will carry off your new pan besides, which you owe me, for when you were summoned to the court before, I paid for your punishment!”
“You lie,” cried the poor old woman. “I was never summoned before to that court in all my life; and I have done no wrong. May the evil one catch you for your wickedness, and carry you away, and my pan too!”
And when the fiend heard her curse the Summoner on her knees, he came forward and said, “Now, good mother, are you in earnest when you say that?”
“May the devil fetch him, pan and all, before he dies, if he doesn’t repent!”