High street into the corn-market rolled the tired train, and
turned into the rambling square of the old Crown Inn near Carfax church,
a large, substantial hostelry, one of merry England's best,
clean-chambered, homelike, full of honest cheer.

There was a shout of greeting everywhere. The hostlers ran to walk the
horses till they cooled, and to rub them down before they fed, for they
were all afoam. Master Davenant himself saw to the storing of the wains;
and Mistress Davenant, a comely dame, with smooth brown hair and ruddy
cheeks, and no less wit than sprightly grace, was in the porch to meet
the company. "Well, good Dame Clout," said she, "art home again? What
tales we'll have! Didst see Tom Lane? No? Pshaw! But buss me, Moll;
we've missed thy butter parlously." And then quite free she kissed both
Nick and Cicely.

"What, there, Dame Davenant!" cried Roger Clout, "art passing them
around?" and laughed, "Do na forget me."

"Nay, nay," she answered, "but I'm out. Here, Nan," she called to the
smutty-faced scullery-maid, "a buss for Master Clout; his own Moll's
busses be na fine enough since he hath been to town."

So, joking, laughing, they went in; while plain John Saddler backed out
of the porch as sooty Nan came running up, for fear the jilt might offer
somewhat of the sort to him, and was off in haste to see to his teams,"
There's no leaving it to the boys," said he, "for they'd rub 'em down
wi' a water-pail, and give 'em straw to drink."

When the guests all came to the fourpenny table to sup, Nick spoke to
Master Roger Clout. "Ye've done enough for us, sir; thank ye with all my
heart; but I've a turn will serve us here, and, sir, I'd rather stand on
mine own legs. Ye will na mind?" And when they all were seated at the
board, he rose up stoutly at the end, and called out brave and clear:
"Sirs, and good dames all, will ye be pleased to have some music while
ye eat? For, if ye will, the little maid and I will sing you the latest
song from London town, a merry thing, with a fine trolly-lolly, sirs,
to glad your hearts with hearing."

Would they have music? To be sure! Who would not music while he ate must
be a Flemish dunderkopf, said they. So Nick and Cicely stood at one side
of the room upon a bench by the server's board, and sang together, while
he played upon Mistress Davenant's gittern:

"Hey, laddie, hark to the merry, merry lark!
How high he singeth clear:
'Oh, a morn in spring is t