“They are by Gec-gec-ged!” hiccuped Stubbs, trying to keep himself upright on his horse.
“They are; you speak true, captain—they’re all you say,” chorussed several of the troopers, who had come away without settling their scores.
“Then let them go to the devil;” muttered Scarthe, becoming alike regardless of Uxbridge and its interests. “Let’s look to what’s before us. No—not that. First what’s behind us. No pretty girls in the inn here. Ah! that’s a pity. Never mind the women, so long as there’s wine. Hillo, Old Boniface! Once more set your taps a-flowing. What will you drink, vagabonds? Beer?”
“Ay, ay—anything you like, noble captain.”
“Beer, Boniface; and for me more sack. What say you, Stubbs?”
“Sack, sa-a-ck!” stammered the cornet. “Burnt sa-a-ck. Nothing like it, by Ge-ged!”
“Who pays?” inquired the landlord, evidently under some apprehension as to the probability of this ultimate order being for cash.
“Pays, knave!” shouted Scarthe, pulling a gold piece from his doublet, and shieing it in the landlord’s face. “Do you take the king’s cuirassiers for highway robbers? The wine—the wine! Quick with it, or I’ll draw your corks with the point of my sword.”
With the numerous staff, which an inn in those times could afford to maintain, both the beer and the more generous beverage were soon within reach of the lips of those intended to partake of them. The national drink was brought first; but out of deference to their officers, the men refrained partaking of it, till the sack was poured into the cups.
Scarthe seized the goblet presented to him and raising it aloft, called out:—