“It’s not their poverty that prejudices me against them, then. It’s their looks and their ways. I’ve come across thieving rogues a-plenty in my time, sir, and these have the same look, so they have—and worse.”
Captain Jones and Ethan sat for some time engaged in conversation relating to the struggle for independence; they had been at the inn for some hours and the night had fallen long since, black and complete. As they talked they caught the sound of hoofs approaching along the road toward the hostelry.
“More guests,” said the captain, crossing his legs comfortably before the fire, and enjoying the pleasant warmth.
The host and his helpers seemed surprised; two parties of travelers to stop at the Burgundian King in one evening was an unusual thing, indeed. In a short time the arriving horsemen had dismounted, been bidden welcome, and came stamping into the supper room. The night was cold and had turned to snow. The men wore heavy cloaks wound about them and fur caps pulled low over their eyes; they crossed to a side of the room which was not swept by the door of the inner room, and here removed their mufflings.
“A cold night, landlord,” said one of them, in perfect French.
“It is, indeed, monsieur,” answered the host of the Burgundian King. “And it is growing colder.”
“We’d like supper and beds,” said the guest.
“Yes, monsieur, with great pleasure. We are rather crowded to-night, but the King can accommodate you, I’m sure.”
Supper was provided for the newcomers, and they ate it with much low grumbling.
“O’Moore would be pleased to hear that,” smiled Ethan.