owd that was continually passing in and out of the
north gate.

With an air of easy unconcern, he directed his steps towards the
entrance. A harsh croak greeted him, and he recognized the crippled
sailor who called himself Kurt the Knacker. He glanced up to see that
worthy ensconced in a snug corner of the gateway and surrounded by his
accustomed cronies the warders on duty. Plainly, there had been more
than one replenishing of the black-jack that stood on the settle beside
him, for his face was flushed and the purple veins in his high, bald
forehead presented an inordinately swollen appearance.

"Hola! shipmet," said the Knacker, in a tone that was doubtless intended
to be affable. "It is to be a brave show to-day and you are come in good
time to see it. Seven thunders! but one always sees the black-jackets
flocking thick as flies in a pudding when the smell of the saucepan is
in the air. Your master yonder was of too proud a stomach to clink can
with us, but you will be more amiable. There's a fresh cask on the
trestles and not a token to pay."

Constans, following the direction in which a stubby forefinger pointed,
caught sight of the tall form of Prosper, the priest. He was moving
slowly along in the press and only a few yards away. Now Constans had no
desire for a meeting with his ecclesiastical superior; so, without
troubling himself to reply to the Knacker's hospitable invitation, he
tried to edge forward and again seek concealment in the crowd. But Kurt
reached out and caught his sleeve. "No skulking, reverend sir," he said,
maliciously. "Which shall it be, a swig from my black-jack or a full
toss of the horn? For drink you must, if you would enter here."

One of the guardsmen held out a full ox-horn of wine, and the Knacker
seized it and forced it into Constans's hand.

"After all, the good malt is for stronger stomachs; wine is the tipple
for women, boys, and priests. Down with it right cheerfully or take a
sousing in the butt itself--to drown there or drink it dry."

It was not a prudent thing to do, but Constans was angry. Seizing the
ox-horn, he dashed its contents full in his tormentor's face, and Kurt,
the Knacker, half strangled, fell back coughing and breathing
stertorously. It was a critical moment, but luckily the temper of the
by-standers was in mood to be amused. A great roar of laughter went up,
and under cover of it Constans managed to push his way on through the
crowd and so reach the open