Mr. Pepys expostulated.
“Five gold pieces, you rogue, for a night in an out-house?”
“Warm hay is better than wet grass. We can send you in a jug of beer and some bread and bacon.”
“Thank Heaven, John, there is such a place as hell! Open the gate, my man.”
“Throw the money over first.”
“Deuce take me, I am no such fool. Open the gate, and you shall have the money.”
They heard the lifting of the bar and the shooting of the bolts. It was a woman who met them—a cloak over her head and a lantern swinging in her hand. The man stood in a deep shadow behind the gate, and they could see the glint of a gun-barrel and the grayness of his face.
“Money down, gentlemen.”
Mr. Pepys felt very much like being held up by a footpad. He glanced over his shoulder for John Gore, who led the horses, and then threw five gold pieces down on the court-yard stones. The woman picked them up, one by one, examining each in turn by the light of the lantern.
“Come this way, sirs.”