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that had happened since the day he fled from Moll Stevens’s alehouse. There was Colin Samson, whose dirk he wore; there was the wild-eyed, black-haired man with the great book and the woeful tale; there were Martin, and Tom Jordan, ‘‘the Old One”’; there were the inn and the old lady and gentleman — it all seemed so utterly unreal! — and Nell Entick, and Sir John Bristol. He fell asleep thinking of Nell and Sir John and dreamed of marrying Nell and keeping a tavern, to which the bluff old knight came in the guise of a very aged gentleman from Little Grimsby with a coachman who went poaching pheasants in the tavern yard.

It was early morning when Mother Taylor called them down to breakfast at a table burdened with good food such as they had not eaten for many long days. She sat by the fire, a bent old woman in a round-backed little chair, watching them with keen small eyes while they ate, and smiling in a way that set her wrinkles all a-quiver to see them empty dish after dish.

“Th’ art a good old witch, Mother Taylor, though the Devil cry nay,” said Martin. ‘‘Though thy score be high never did’st thou grudge a man the meat he ate.”

“Tis not for nought the gentlemen love Mother Taylor,’ she quavered. ‘‘What can a woman do when her beauty’s gone but hold a man by the food she sets before him? ’T is the secret of blessed marriage, Martin, and heaven send thee a wife as knows it like I!”

“Beauty, thou old beldame! What did’st thou ever know of beauty? But beauty is a matter of little moment. Hast thou prepared the way for us?”

She laughed in shrill delight at his rough jesting.

“Aye, I ha’ sent a messenger. Seek out the Rose of Devon and do thy part, and all shall be well.”