What she would have said will never be known, for Sir Aylmer himself said something so startling that the maiden, who had only twisted the rope several times round the post, and retained the end in her hand, suddenly let go. There was a whistling of rope,—a loud scream,—a loud splash,—a great deal of floundering,—and then Sir Aylmer de Mountfitchett hastened home, this time also in dudgeon, and had to be grueled and nose-tallowed for a violent cold which he had somehow caught; while in the archives of the castle might at one time have been seen the following curious manuscript written in a clerkly hand by one Friar Malvoisey, for whom the good dame named therein used to wash.
“Sir Aylmer Mountfitchett
To Sarah Brown.
Balance............1 merck 11 groates.
Washing doublet and hose clean from ye black mud 111 groates.”
There may be some sceptical people who will doubt the truth of this legend; and to such, as the writer is unable to produce the ancient manuscript, he says in the language of the good old times, “I crave your mercy!”
Chapter Thirty.
Found in the Street.
Yes, all sorts, sir, and we takes the innercent and the guilty too sometimes, no doubt on it. Yer see we’re men as generally has everybody’s ill word, and nobody ever has a good word for us unless there’s somebody as wants us, when it’s “Oh, my good man, and ah, my good man,” and at other times they won’t look at us.
I remember once taking a poor chap for stealing bread, and if there’s anything a poor fellow might be forgive it might be that. Well, sir, as I was a-sayin’, I was on my beat one day, or more properly speaking, it was evening, for it was just gettin’ dusk, one November arternoon, and a bitter cold, raw arternoon it was, with the smoky fog givin’ yer the chokes, and gettin’ into yer eyes, and makin’ yer feel all on edge like, and as gritty as if yer was in a bed where someone had been a eatin’ of bread. Folks was lighting up their shops, and I was a-growling to myself and wishin’ it was time to go off duty when I sees a crowd on in front, and there in the middle of it was a floury baker, goin’ on like anything and shakin’ away like any savage at a miserable-looking hollow-faced chap in a wesket and trousers, and his bare arms all a showin’ through his ragged shirt. He hadn’t got no hat, and his skin looked as blue and pinched as if he’d been frozen or just taken out of the river.
“Well,” I says, “what’s up?”