"Holloa, friend!--thy name?" shouted Giles, placing his hand on the
latch.
"Open the door, for the love of mercy!" cried a strange voice. Giles
drew back; he liked not this salutation--more, by token, from the
adjurement being for the love of mercy, in lieu of an appeal to the
tinkling angels that generally lined a traveller's pouch.
"Some sturdy beggar or mendicant friar," thought he, "that knocks at my
door because the chantry gates are shut. I care not to open my door to
every losel that knocks," cried he aloud. "Hence! I know thee not."
"Goodman, give me a night's lodging, and I will reward thee"--the door
flew open at this intimation--"with a palmer's benison," continued the
stranger, advancing towards the wan embers that yet flickered on the
hearth. Had Giles awaited the finishing of this sentence ere the latch
was loosened, some other and more hospitable roof had enjoyed the
benefit of that night's adventure.
"Thanks are not over meet for a cool stomach," growled the disappointed
tapster; whilst his guest roused the decaying faggots into a faint and
unsteady blaze.
Giles surveyed the new-comer with no very sanguine prepossessions in his
behalf.
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