“Our merchant—and in time after all,” said Wulf, and, followed by the others, he went out to meet them.
Georgios it was, sure enough, wrapped in a great sheepskin cloak such as Cypriotes wear in winter, and seated on the head of one of his own barrels.
“Your pardon, knights,” he said as he scrambled nimbly to the ground. “The roads in this country are such that, although I have left nearly half my load at Stangate, it has taken me four long hours to come from the Abbey here, most of which time we spent in mud-holes that have wearied the horses and, as I fear, strained the wheels of this crazy wagon. Still, here we are at last, and, noble sir,” he added, bowing to Sir Andrew, “here too is the wine that your son bought of me.”
“My nephew,” interrupted Sir Andrew.
“Once more your pardon. I thought from their likeness to you that these knights were your sons.”
“Has he bought all that stuff?” asked Sir Andrew—for there were five tubs on the wagon, besides one or two smaller kegs and some packages wrapped in sheepskin.
“No, alas!” answered the Cypriote ruefully, and shrugging his shoulders. “Only two of the Mavro. The rest I took to the Abbey, for I understood the holy Prior to say he would purchase six casks, but it seems that it was but three he needed.”
“He said three,” put in Wulf.
“Did he, sir? Then doubtless the error was mine, who speak your tongue but ill. So I must drag the rest back again over those accursed roads,” and he made another grimace. “Yet I will ask you, sir,” he added to Sir Andrew, “to lighten the load a little by accepting this small keg of the old sweet vintage that grows on the slopes of Trooidos.”
“I remember it well,” said Sir Andrew, with a smile; “but, friend, I do not wish to take your wine for nothing.”