am going to tell the story. Robin tapster, bring me no more ale, but good mulled wine! It’s cold and getting dark, and I have to drink to a brave man besides” —

With the old bold laugh in his eyes, he raised himself, for the moment as strong as I that held him. “Drink to that Englishman, all of ye!” he cried, “and not in filthy ale, but in good, gentlemanly sack! I’ll pay the score. Here’s to him, brave hearts! Here’s to my master!”

With his hand at his mouth, and his story untold, he fell back. I held him in my arms until the brief struggle was over, and then laid his body down upon the earth.

It might have been one of the clock. For a little while I sat beside him, with my head bowed in my