"And that's true, o' conscience!" smiled the buxom Cicely.
"And ye'll find no better brew than our own!" quoth Roger.
"And that I'll swear to!" laughed the peddler. "Cram me wi' spiders else!"
So the good ale was brought and Godby, lifting his tankard, smiled and nodded over the creamy foam:
"Here's a griping colic to every catchpoll, harmon-beck and the like vermin 'twixt this and London town!" says he, and lifted the ale to his lips; but suddenly he sat it down untasted and rose: "Friends, I'm took!" quoth he. "See yonder!" As he spake the narrow doorway was darkened and two rough fellows entered, and each bore a formidable bludgeon.
"Aye," says one, a big, surly-voiced fellow, "here be us, peddler, and there be you, so best come easy—an' no tricks, mind!"
"Then easy does it, lads!" says Godby, no whit abashed. "No lamb could come milder than Godby, aye lambs, doves and babes is roaring lions compared wi' Godby—so easy does it. What is't this time, codgers?"
"Fower hours i' the pillory, three i' the stocks, and a month in Maidstone jail and that's what!"
"And enough too!" growled Roger the landlord, clenching hairy fist and glancing furtively towards a rusty sword suspended above the hearth.
"Let be, Roger—I'm a lamb!" sighed the peddler. "And I wouldn't ha' you in trouble by me—besides this room o' yourn, though snug, ain't fit for struggling nor striving! So, friends—good-bye!" Then he turned away between his two captors, but as he did so, his bright eyes for one moment met mine and in his look I read appeal.