"The shipman, my foster-brother, hath told me. But the money, the money?" he added, opening his withered hand.
"A curse on the shipman," growled Redward to himself, "his tongue will be our undoing. Here, take this," he added, counting out a sum of money equivalent to the five sols demanded. "Canst furnish us with a horse apiece?"
Ignoring the question, the barber counted the pieces, putting each coin between his toothless gums, as if doubtful of their quality.
"Didst hear me—respecting the use of two horses?" demanded Redward sternly.
"Yea, noble master," replied the barber. "But there are none to be had."
"None?"
"None! They have all been seized by those of Blois till the affair is over. Therefore, by necessity, ye must go afoot—and the roads are very unsafe for travellers at present, especially Englishmen bound for Hennebon!"
"A pest on your words! What would ye have us do?"
The old man advanced a step, peering with his bleared eyes into the face of the master-bowman.
"For money there is much to be had!" he croaked, a sardonic smile overspreading his withered face, while his long fingers clawed invisible heaps of gold.