"Oh! the fine mouldy smell," said Denys; "in such places still lurks the
good wine; advance thy torch. Diable! what is that in the corner? A pile
of rags? No: 'tis a man."
They gathered round with the torch, and lo! a figure crouched on a heap
in the corner, pale as ashes and shivering.
"Why, it is the landlord," said Denys.
"Get up, thou craven heart!" shouted one of the archers.
"Why, man, the thieves are bound, and we are dry that bound them. Up!
and show us thy wine; for no bottles see here."
"What, be the rascals bound?" stammered the pale landlord; "good news.
W-w-wine? that will I, honest sirs."
And he rose with unsure joints and offered to lead the way to the wine
cellar. But Denys interposed. "You are all in the dark, comrades. He is
in league with the thieves."
"Alack, good soldier, me in league with the accursed robbers! Is that
reasonable?"
"The girl said so anyway."
"The girl! What girl? Ah! Curse her, traitress!"
"Well," interposed the other archer; "the girl is not here, but gone on
to the bailiff. So let the burghers settle whether this craven be guilty
or no: for we caught him not in the act: and let him draw us our wine."
"One moment," said Denys shrewdly. "Why cursed he the girl? If he be a
true man, he should bless her as we do."
"Alas, sir!" said the landlord, "I have but my good name to live by, and
I cursed her to you, because you said she had belied me.
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