“I fear I must trouble you again, cousin,” says I. “’Tis another flag of truce. Will you make inquiry of the messenger as to its meaning?”
She frowned as she put her face to the opening. “Well, fellow?” says she. “You are come again, eh?”
“On a merciful errand, mistress,” he answered. “In truth, we are at war, but should our enmity extend to the very animals? I pray you, mistress, to call a truce while we lead our horses across the ford to drink at the trough. The poor beasts do thirst exceeding sore—yea, even as the hart desireth——”
“No blasphemies, fellow,” says she, and turns to me inquiringly. “What shall I say?” she asks.
“No,” I says. “’Tis but a trick that they may get out of the stable. Once under cover of the house wall they may go where they please untouched. In their present position we have them safe so long as daylight lasts.”
“Yes,” she says, meditatively. “Yes—but—there’s a notion struck me,” she says, looking at me with a queer expression in her eyes. “Your danger, Master Richard—I think I see a way out of it. Would there be any harm if we allowed this man to water his horses, one at a time, on condition that none of his fellows leave the stable?”
“No great harm in that,” I says, not quite seeing what she aimed at, but having some faith in her woman’s wit; “but assure him that if any of the others leave the stable they will be shot.”
She turned to the window. “Listen, fellow,” says she. “You may bring out the horses yourself, one at a time, and water them at the trough, but if one of your companions shows his face we shall shoot him.”
“Agreed, mistress,” says he. “’Tis for the poor animals.”
“And hark ye,” she said, “there is a little window near the trough—place yourself near it when you come with the horses—I have something to say to you.”