“Lud,” said Malt, the cellaress, “I wish I could find my supper.”
Thereat they all laughed, Igraine as heartily as any.
“Perhaps Claudia will pray for manna dew,” she said.
“Scoffer!”
“It will be cranberries, and bread and water, till better seasons come. I have heard that there are wild grapes in the wold.”
“Bread!” quoth Malt; “did some kind soul say bread?”
“I have a small loaf here under my habit.”
“Ah, Igraine, girl, I would chant twenty psalms for a morsel of that loaf.”
“Chant away, sister. Begin on the ‘Attendite, popule.’ I believe it is one of the longest.”
“Don’t trifle with a hungry wretch.”