"
The archer with the torch, whose name was Philippe, held the bone to the
light and turned it round and round.
"Well?" said Denys.
"Well, if this was a field of battle, I should say 'twas the shankbone
of a man; no more, no less. But 'tisn't a battlefield, nor a churchyard;
'tis an inn."
"True, mate; but yon knave's ashy face is as good a light to me as a
field of battle. I read the bone by it, Bring yon face nearer, I say.
When the chine is amissing, and the house dog can't look at you without
his tail creeping between his legs, who was the thief? Good brothers
mine, my mind it doth misgive me. The deeper I thrust the more there be.
Mayhap if these bones could tell their tale they would make true men's
flesh creep that heard it."
"Alas! young man, what hideous fancies are these! The bones are bones
of beeves, and sheep, and kids, and not, as you think, of men and women.
Holy saints preserve us!"
"Hold thy peace! thy words are air. Thou hast not got burghers by the
ear, that know not a veal knuckle from their grandsire's ribs; but
soldiers-men that have gone to look for their dear comrades, and found
their bones picked as clean by the crows as these I doubt have been by
thee and thy mates. Men and women, saidst thou? And prithee, when spake
I a word of women's bones? Wouldst make a child suspect thee. Field
of battle, comrade! Was not this house a field of battle half an hour
agone? Drag him close to me, let me read his face: now then, what is
this, thou knave?" and he thrust a small object suddenly in his face.
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