Eventide was then drawing on, but it did not appear that the falcon had
been loosed to the game; the usual tokens of success were wanting--the
torn and bloody carcases that marked an abundant sport. Two or three of
the brethren were sitting on a bench in the gateway. In passing by, the
foremost of the strangers hastily addressed his follower.
"Ralph Newcome, plague on thee! hast thou had a call again at the
wallet? Thou guzzling tinder-throat, thy drouth is never slaked!"
Now Ralph, having felt sore oppressed with the weight of sundry leathern
bottles, loaves, and wedges of cold meat, had taken especial care to
lighten his back and load his stomach whenever the occasion was urgent.
His endeavours had not been without success, for the wallet, as we have
seen, hung from his shoulders, long, narrow, and unfurnished, save with
the scraps and relics of many a savoury junket.
"Coming, master," was the reply, sufficiently audible for his master's
ear; the remainder escaped in a sort of grumble, the dregs of his ill
humour at the interruption.
The sportsman, if such he was, gained a ready admittance into the abbey
enclosure.
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