“My good soul, why so surly? We are honest men and have the wherewithal to pay. What is more, we are hungry and dead tired.” “How many are you?” asked the voice, while the dog kept sniffing at the gate. “Two of us, and our horses.” “What will you pay?” Mr. Pepys gave John Gore a shocked and indignant nudge. “The foul clod, bargaining with our starvation! A gold carolus, my friend.” “Say five,” quoth the voice, laconically. “Five! Why it’s sheer robbery!” “Stay outside, then; it’s no business of mine.” “Five be it, then,” said Mr. Pepys, in disgust. The man went off, saying that he would chain the dog up, because the beast was fierce. They heard him call to some one, and then the sound of voices haggling together and the rattle of a chain. Presently the slow and heavy footsteps came back across the court-yard, with the lighter, quicker tread of a woman following. She had brought a lantern with her, and the light from it played under the gate. “You can sleep in the barn,” said the man’s voice. “My woman won’t take strangers into the kitchen.” Mr. Pepys expostulated. “Five gold pieces, you rogue, for a night in an out-house?” “Warm hay is better than wet grass. We can send you in a jug of beer and some bread and bacon.” “Thank Heaven, John, there is such a place as hell! Open the gate, my man.” “Throw the money over first.” “Deuce take me, I am no such fool. Open the gate, and you shall have the money.” They heard the lifting of the bar and the shooting of the bolts. It was a woman who met them—a cloak over her head and a lantern swinging in her hand. The man stood in a deep shadow behind the gate, and they could see the glint of a gun-barrel and the grayness of his face. “Money down, gentlemen.” Mr. Pepys felt very much like being held up by a footpad. He glanced over his shoulder for John Gore, who led the horses, and then threw five gold pieces down on the court-yard stones. The woman picked them up, one by one, examining each in turn by the light of the lantern. “Come this way, sirs.” Mr. Pepys did not like the gleam of the gun-barrel, nor the mystery of the place; but he felt more at ease, now that he had something in petticoats to deal with. “I must make my apologies, ma’am,” he said, intending to try civility, “for disturbing you at such an hour. We have lost ourselves twice to-day on the road. Seeing us to be such quiet gentlemen, you might be persuaded—” The woman cut him short without great ceremony, and they heard the grinding of hinges as the man closed the court-yard gate. “You had better walk more this way or the dog will have a bite at your leg.” “Obliged, ma’am, I swear,” and he took the hint promptly. “If you happen to have a warm corner in your kitchen—” “I don’t keep a tavern, sir,” she said, quietly. “This is my man’s business, not mine. If you can’t sleep on clean hay, the more’s the pity.”