'What have you got that for? It was in my house.'
'Yes. You took it in. But it is not yours. It belongs to Mark Runham. His father bought it of us. He gave a guinea for it. I picked it up on the bank when I overtook you. You had your flail in your hand. You would have ridden on and left me and my father in the lurch, but I stood in the way with that flail. It is not mine. I have the guinea I received for it in my purse. Now that the old man is dead, for certain it belongs to his son. That is why I am taking it to him.'
'He shall not have it! He must not have it!' exclaimed Drownlands. 'How came you to know Mark Runham?'
'The young man walked from his father's funeral. So did I. He walked the fastest, and he caught me up. He spoke kindly, and so I shall pay him for it with a milk-strainer, or, if he prefers it, with blacking-brushes.'
'Give him the blacking-brushes, by all means.'
'Or the milk-strainer?'
'Or the milk-strainer; but not the flail.'
'It is his,' said Zita. 'The old man paid down his money for it.'
'Give him back the money, not the flail. Here'—
Drownlands thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew a handful of money, gold, silver, copper, mixed, from it, and extended it to the girl.