The fourth day after Wulf’s visit to Southminster was Christmas morning, and the weather being bad, Sir Andrew and his household did not ride to Stangate, but attended mass in Steeple Church. Here, after service, according to his custom on this day, he gave a largesse to his tenants and villeins, and with it his good wishes and a caution that they should not become drunk at their Yuletide feast, as was the common habit of the time. “We shall not get the chance,” said Wulf, as they walked to the Hall, “since that merchant Georgios has not delivered the wine, of which I hoped to drink a cup to-night.” “Perhaps he has sold it at a better price to someone else; it would be like a Cypriote,” answered Sir Andrew, smiling. Then they went into the hall, and as had been agreed between them, together the brethren gave their Christmas gifts to Rosamund. She thanked them prettily enough, and much admired the beauty of the work. When they told her that it had not yet been paid for, she laughed and said that, however they were come by, she would wear both tunic and veil at their feast, which was to be held at nightfall. About two o’clock in the afternoon a servant came into the hall to say that a wain drawn by three horses and accompanied by two men, one of whom led the horses, was coming down the road from Steeple village. “Our merchant—and in time after all,” said Wulf, and, followed by the others, he went out to meet them. Georgios it was, sure enough, wrapped in a great sheepskin cloak such as Cypriotes wear in winter, and seated on the head of one of his own barrels. “Your pardon, knights,” he said as he scrambled nimbly to the ground. “The roads in this country are such that, although I have left nearly half my load at Stangate, it has taken me four long hours to come from the Abbey here, most of which time we spent in mud-holes that have wearied the horses and, as I fear, strained the wheels of this crazy wagon. Still, here we are at last, and, noble sir,” he added, bowing to Sir Andrew, “here too is the wine that your son bought of me.” “My nephew,” interrupted Sir Andrew. “Once more your pardon. I thought from their likeness to you that these knights were your sons.” “Has he bought all that stuff?” asked Sir Andrew—for there were five tubs on the wagon, besides one or two smaller kegs and some packages wrapped in sheepskin. “No, alas!” answered the Cypriote ruefully, and shrugging his shoulders. “Only two of the Mavro. The rest I took to the Abbey, for I understood the holy Prior to say he would purchase six casks, but it seems that it was but three he needed.” “He said three,” put in Wulf. “Did he, sir? Then doubtless the error was mine, who speak your tongue but ill. So I must drag the rest back again over those accursed roads,” and he made another grimace. “Yet I will ask you, sir,” he added to Sir Andrew, “to lighten the load a little by accepting this small keg of the old sweet vintage that grows on the slopes of Trooidos.”