“Fie! fie!” said the squire, “I hope you did not look at them?”
“Faith, but I did then, and very pretty they looked. But you’ll be able to give your own opinion, sir, by and bye.”
“A good lad, Twm, a good lad, remind me to give you a golden angel for this day’s work; but what have you done with her? where is she?”
“Why, sir,” cried Twm. “I tied her up to the manger and locked the door, to prevent her escape.”
“Shame, Twm, shame! you ought not to have done that, for she will think it was by my orders, and hate me perhaps for my supposed cruelty,” quoth the squire, thinking all the time that Cadwgan’s lass, and not his ass was the subject of discussion.
“No, sir,” replied Twm, “but it is likely though, that she will have an ill-will towards me, as long as she lives, for it.”
“Well, well,” said his master hastily, “take her from the stable into the housekeeper’s room, and tell Margery to comfort her and give her a glass of wine.”
This was too much for Twm, and the smothered laugh burst out in spite of his efforts; on which, his master with a severe brow, asked how he dared to laugh in his presence. “Indeed I could not help it,” cried Twm, “but I don’t think she ever drank a glass of wine in her life, and perhaps might not like it.”
“Why, that’s true; then tell the butler to give out a bottle of the sweet home-made wine for her—let it be a bottle of the cowslip wine, and say that I am very sorry for the trouble and vexation she has had.”
“Yes, sir,” cried Twm, who made his bow and retired to the servants’ hall, where he made them acquainted with the squire’s freak of having farmer Cadwgan’s ass brought there on a pillion behind him; and that it was his master’s orders that she was to be brought into the house-keeper’s room, and a glass of wine given to her, and that Margery was to make her comfortable.