"
"Not half so ripe as thine own, gossip. Here be two gentles that have
commission, I guess, to look at the beacons, to see they are in trim and
properly watched. 'Tis well the guard is set. Holloa, Nicholas Dewhurst,
bring the flagon. I am wheezing like an old wife's bellows, nigh
disinherited of my birthright, the free quaffing o' the air. I shall die
and be canonised."
Will, in his eagerness to attain this glorious end, left his companions
with the sentinel, who speedily conducted them into a rude hut, erected
as a temporary shelter to those on the look-out for signals. In this
narrow shed a lamp was burning. Two of the abbot's servants, stretched
before a smouldering heap of turf, were scarcely roused by the
vociferations of Will, as he strode over them in his way to the
provender. A long pull, and a loud smack, announced the satisfactory
relish that ensued.
"Hoa, ye lozel knaves!--who sleeps when Will's awake?" This reflection
was accompanied by a smart blow on that part of the recumbent's person
where it was most conveniently administered.
"Begone, sot!" was the abrupt reply, not over-abundantly expressive of
good humour at this disturbance.
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