"Alas, sir!" said the landlord, "I have but my good name to live by, and I cursed her to you, because you said she had belied me." "Humph! I trow thou art a thief, and where is the thief that cannot lie with a smooth face? Therefore hold him, comrades: a prisoner can draw wine an if his hands be not bound." The landlord offered no objection; but on the contrary said he would with pleasure show them where his little stock of wine was, but hoped they would pay for what they should drink, for his rent was due this two months. The archers smiled grimly at his simplicity as they thought it; one of them laid a hand quietly but firmly on his shoulder, the other led on with the torch. They had reached the threshold when Denys cried "Halt!" "What is't?" "Here be bottles in this corner; advance thy light." The torch-bearer went towards him. He had just taken off his scabbard and was probing the heap the landlord had just been crouched upon. "Nay, nay," cried the landlord, "the wine is in the next cellar. There is nothing _there_." "Nothing is mighty hard, then," said Denys, and drew out something with his hand from the heap. It proved to be only a bone. Denys threw it on the floor: it rattled. "There is nought there but the bones of the house," said the landlord. "Just now 'twas nothing. Now that we have found something 'tis nothing but bones. Here's another. Humph? look at this one, comrade; and you come too and look at it, and bring yon smooth knave along." The archer with the torch, whose name was Philippe, held the bone to the light and turned it round and round. "Well?" said Denys. "Well, if this was a field of battle I should say 'twas the shank-bone of a man! no more, no less. But 'tisn't a battle field, nor a churchyard; 'tis an inn." "True, mate: but yon knave's ashy face is as good a light to me as a field of battle. I read the bone by it. Bring yon face nearer, I say. When the chine is amissing, and the house dog can't look at you without his tail creeping between his legs, who was the thief? Good brothers mine, my mind it doth misgive me. The deeper I thrust the more there be. Mayhap if these bones could tell their tale they would make true men's flesh creep that heard it." "Alas! young man, what hideous fancies are these! The bones are bones of beeves, and sheep, and kids, and not, as you think, of men and women. Holy saints preserve us!"