"Fret not yourself, good maid," said Sir Richard kindly. "Nay--I wot well it was not your fault. I fear me my friend has been struck with some fearsome sickness. He was not always thus. You may go, maid. But bring not the food--I dare not wait. Indeed, I was not over keen to eat. A slice of bread from your hand before I get me in the saddle is all I crave." "That shalt thou have," said the maid with returning spirit, starting for the kitchen door, "and a bit of toasted cheese to keep it company." "Upon my soul, de Claverlok," remonstrated Sir Richard, "your temper is growing to be something unbearable. 'Twas not the wench's fault that the food was overturned. You backed your great body square against the platter, leaving her no room for escape on either side. You've had your quarrel with our host, who seems, in sooth, a right peaceable and merry fellow; you berated the groom, and glowered upon the kitchen-maid--with whom will you brawl next, my friend?" "Why, with you, an you stay not here to eat and drink," retorted de Claverlok. "Then let the fun begin," said the young knight, starting for the rear door that gave to the court and stables. "Not another moment do I tarry here. An you are coming with me--come." De Claverlok could do nothing but follow, the which he did with obvious reluctance. Once outside, they ran plump into the inn-keeper, who was all at sea whether to smile and pass the usual joke, or to keep his eyes fastened discreetly upon his broad expanse of doublet. Sir Richard, however, allowed him no choice of alternatives. He stopped him, setting his hand firmly upon the landlord's round shoulder. "When my friend interrupted," said the young knight, "you were about to tell me the distance and direction of Castle Yewe--is it not so?" MacWhuddy cast a sheepish look in the direction of de Claverlok, who was scowling fiercely and shaking his fist behind Sir Richard's back. "'Tis in some'at of that way," he replied, "ower there," waving his trembling hands to the eastward; "some, ... oh! near--I say near, mind thee, worshipful knight, ... near twenty--thirty leagues." According to that, Sir Richard would have been required to travel some distance out upon the open sea. De Claverlok strode toward the stable, muttering savage oaths against the stupidity of innkeepers in general, and poor MacWhuddy in particular. Meanwhile, the serving-maid, bread and cheese in hand, was beckoning the young knight from the kitchen window.