Beneath the group, in a rough scrawl, were the words--
Rule all: Pray all:
Fight all: Pay all.
As Desmond drew nearer to the inn, there came to him along the silent
road the sound of singing. This was somewhat unusual at such an hour, for
folk went early to bed, and the inn was too far from the town to have
attracted waifs and strays from the crowd. What was still more unusual,
the tones were not the rough, forced, vagrant tones of tipsy farmers;
they were of a single voice, light, musical, and true. Desmond's
curiosity was flicked, and he hastened his step, guessing from the
clearness of the sound that the windows were open and the singer in full
view.
The singing ceased abruptly just as he reached the inn. But the windows
stood indeed wide open, and from the safe darkness of the road he could
see clearly, by the light of four candles on the high mantel shelf, the
whole interior of the inn parlor. It held four persons. One lay back in a
chair near the fire, his legs outstretched, his chin on his breast, his
open lips shaking as he snored. It was Tummus Biles, the tranter, who had
driven a tall stranger from Chester to the present spot, and whose
indignation at being miscalled Jehu had only been appeased by a quart of
strong ale. On the other side of the fireplace, curled up on a settle,
and also asleep, lay the black boy, Scipio Africanus. Desmond noted these
two figures in passing; his gaze fastened upon the remaining two, who sat
at a corner of the table, a tankard in front of each.
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