Giles. ’Tis rarer, and finer than all the foreign lands that lie beneath the sun, my lads.
George. That’s good hearing, master. And is the victuals like to be as fine as the place?
Giles. O, you’ll fare well enough yonder.
John. I was never one for foreign victuals, nor for the drink that was over there neither.
Giles. Well, the both of you shall rest this night beneath the grandest roof that ever sheltered a man’s head. And you shall sit at a table spread as you’ve not seen this many a year.
George. That’ll be sommat to think on, master, when us gets upon our legs again.
John. I be thinking of it ahead as I lies here, and that’s the truth.
[The two servants stretch themselves comfortably beneath the trees. Giles walks restlessly backwards and forwards as though impatient at any delay. From time to time he glances at a ring which he wears, sighing heavily as he does so.
[An old man comes up, leaning on his staff.
Old Man. Good-morning to you, my fine gentlemen.