He therefore returned to York, entering it one snowy winter’s evening, footsore and weary, and not a little despondent. His disguise was that of a minstrel, as best calculated to give him admittance into various places where he might chance to hear somewhat of the objects of his search. He was a tolerable performer on the crwth, or Welsh violin, an accomplishment he had picked up in the course of his wanderings, and he was glad to be able to turn it to such good account. So far he had been entirely unsuccessful, and cold, wet, and hungry, his chief desire was to find some inn or hostelry where he might obtain refreshment. He turned into one of the humblest, as befitting his station, and approached the fire, where a dozen rough-looking men were drinking beer and cracking low jokes with each other, accompanying each with a round oath and a burst of laughter. It seemed that most of their witticisms were directed toward one of their number, who either could not or would not reply, but sat in moody silence, with his back partly turned to the company, drinking an immense quantity of beer, perhaps with the hope of getting himself into a better humor. "Now, by our Lady," said one, "I tell you Dick has cracked his pate." "By the mass," said another, "he acts just like my dog that ran mad, last year; he refuses his victuals, can’t stay still a minute, and snaps at the hand of his best friends." "And he won’t fight," said one long-legged fellow who sat cleaning his sword and patting it affectionately; "he, who used to go into a quarrel as a child goes to a show, with a hop, skip, and jump. Hola! Sir Minstrel, sing us a song of the wars of king Harry, to put a little spirit into yon lazy dog, who has grown afraid of his own cross-bow." "By your leave, my merry masters," said Bertrand, "I will first put a little spirit into myself; I am as wet as though I had swam across the German ocean." So saying, he drew a stool up to the cheerful blaze, and raised an immense leathern flagon to his lips. At the sound of his voice, the persecuted individual in the corner turned around suddenly; but the stranger’s face was buried in his drinking-cup, and he soon relapsed into his former state. "So, so, friend, feed first, and sing afterward; take a good pull at the liquor, and then sing us a song of Dick Redwood, the coward who trembles at his own footsteps." Dick here turned round somewhat fiercely, and muttered: "I can fight, ye know that well enough, ye fools; there’s not an arm here or in Yorkshire that can swing a battle-axe like mine. Would’st thou see if it is any weaker than it was when it tossed Gaspard, the Frenchman, over the wall, like a ball out of a culverin? Look!" and the man bared the muscular limb, and thrust it under his companion’s nose. "Ay, ay, he can fight; see that?" said one of the men, with a shout of mocking laughter.