How far this interesting dialogue between the tavern-keeper and his newly-wedded spouse might have extended it is impossible with any degree of accuracy to set forth, inasmuch as another loud and desperate lunge, extenuated to an inaudible mutter the testy rejoinder of “Giles o’ the Maypole;” this being the cognomen by which he was more familiarly designated.

“Anan!” shouted he, “what the——­ Save us!” he continued in a low whisper, crossing himself, “I had nigh slipped an ugly word over my tongue; and if it should be—­Dame, I say, get up, and”—­

“Nay, thou hast gotten thee two as nimble legs, by thine own reckoning, as any knave i’ the borough.  I shall e’en keep to my bed, goodman, though these guzzle-throats hammer till cock-crow.—­They are at the right side of the door, I trow.”

Now, mine host of the Merry Maypole having taken to himself that last and worst of all possible plagues for the remnant of his days, to wit, a young and somewhat handsome-looking wife, thought it no less meet than reasonable, and no less reasonable than a duty, at all times incumbent, that the before-named helpmate should, if need were, get out of bed and unlatch the wicket whenever good customers were astir; more particularly as the first Dame Dauber, having the fear of a short but tough cudgel upon her, did, at certain times and seasons, when there was the requisite occasion, leave her liege lord to the enjoyment of his warm and luxurious couch, and spread a table for the entertainment of many a night-betrayed traveller.

It was the first exigency of the kind, since the marriage of Giles Dauber to Madge Newsome of the Deercote, in which the discussion of a point so knotty and important had occurred.  Giles dreamt not of the vast difference that exists in the nature and docility of divers women.  He heard with a sort of incredulous surprise the first incipient grumblings in contravention of his authority; but when these had fairly shaped themselves into open defiance, he started agape with wonder.  Recovering himself, with a stern and portentous silence, he jumped out of bed and drew on his doublet and hose.  While thoughts of relentless import were brooding, he groped his way down the ladder that communicated with the lower apartment, for the purpose of ascertaining the quality and condition of the stranger.  The latter still manifested a noisy impatience at being suffered, in so inhospitable a manner, to linger without.  The night was rainy and tempestuous—­Giles shivered to the backbone as he trod on the wheezing rushes strewed over the floor; they were yet damp and dirty, by reason of the many visitors who had that night loitered long at the Merry Maypole.

“Holloa, friend!—­thy name?” shouted Giles, placing his hand on the latch.

“Open the door, for the love of mercy!” cried a strange voice.  Giles drew back; he liked not this salutation—­more, by token, from the adjurement being for the love of mercy, in lieu of an appeal to the tinkling angels that generally lined a traveller’s pouch.