“Yes, he belongs to us,” replied one with a beard, who seemed the leader of the party, “the more sorrow to us.” He threw his dice deliberately: “Seven-tray-cinque.—Pitch him down on the hay yonder.” “Nick, how can you use a comrade so?” maundered the prodigal, as Hugh helped him across the stable and suffered him to roll over on a heap of hay. “Be thankful you get no worse. If old Jack Ridydale had not shogged off with the troop to Chester, you’d get the devil for this; he’s the man could give it you.” “Hardwyn has mind to make himself such another,” said one of the younger and less assured men. “Jeff Hardwyn is a cursed better soldier than ever thou’lt be,” Nick replied concisely, and the play went on. None took heed of Hugh, so, after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down on the loose hay, where his drunken friend had fallen sound asleep. He had no call to linger, but the hay was far softer than the ground of the streets, so he sat there and listened to the gruff talk of the men and the click of the dice. At length he stretched himself out, and, watching the dim lanterns flicker, he, too, went to sleep. Of a sudden he was wakened by some one’s pitching him roughly off the hay. There was dull morning light in the stable now, men were feeding and grooming horses, and right over him stood a shock-headed fellow, with more of the peasant than the trooper still visible in him, who demanded, “What beest thou here for?” “’Twas no harm,” Hugh answered, getting up stiffly; he had meant to walk away, but in the stable there was at least a roof over him, and he hesitated. “I can feed your horse for you,” he ventured.