CHAPTER IX.
AT THE COCK TAVERN, LONDON.
London! the needy villain's general home,
The common sewer of Paris and of Rome.
Here malice, rapine, accident conspire,
And now a rabble rages, now a fire;
Their ambush mere relentless villains lay,
And here the fell attorney prowls for prey.
JOHNSON.
Five days after the tournament had taken place, two travellers reined in their steeds at the gates of the Cock Hostelry, just within the Temple Bar. They were dusty with hard riding, and evidently in no good humour with themselves nor with anyone with whom they were brought into contact—a result doubtless attributable to the discomforts of a long journey on roads rough enough to try the patience of any man.
The elder of the two, throwing the reins upon his horse's neck, alighted, and leaving the ostler to take the steed away, he strode quickly into the inn without uttering a word. The young man, however, got off his saddle in a more leisurely fashion, and before he followed his companion he proceeded to the stable to see that the horses were properly attended to.
"The old man is a trifle out of sorts," the ostler ventured to remark, as they entered the yard together.
"Perchance so," returned the other, "but that is no affair of thine; but an you keep good care of his horse he will think well of thee."
"Yes, yes; certainly!" replied the man, grinning. "I always look well after gentlemen's horses, I do. You'll not be wanting them in the morning, I suppose?
"Yes, no; that is—I don't think we shall, but anyway you had better have them in readiness, we may possibly want them for the return journey to-morrow: tend them well;" and leaving a few final instructions, Sir Thomas Stanley, for he it was, passed out of the stables and entered the parlour of the inn.