The entrance of a stranger procured him that general and careless sort of attention which is usually paid on such occasions, from which the following results were deduced:—­The guest was one of those who, with a well-made person, and features not in themselves unpleasing, are nevertheless so far from handsome that, whether from the expression of their features, or the tone of their voice, or from their gait and manner, there arises, on the whole, a disinclination to their society.  The stranger’s address was bold, without being frank, and seemed eagerly and hastily to claim for him a degree of attention and deference which he feared would be refused, if not instantly vindicated as his right.  His attire was a riding-cloak, which, when open, displayed a handsome jerkin overlaid with lace, and belted with a buff girdle, which sustained a broadsword and a pair of pistols.

“You ride well provided, sir,” said the host, looking at the weapons as he placed on the table the mulled sack which the traveller had ordered.

“Yes, mine host; I have found the use on’t in dangerous times, and I do not, like your modern grandees, turn off my followers the instant they are useless.”

“Ay, sir?” said Giles Gosling; “then you are from the Low Countries, the land of pike and caliver?”

“I have been high and low, my friend, broad and wide, far and near.  But here is to thee in a cup of thy sack; fill thyself another to pledge me, and, if it is less than superlative, e’en drink as you have brewed.”

“Less than superlative?” said Giles Gosling, drinking off the cup, and smacking his lips with an air of ineffable relish,—­“I know nothing of superlative, nor is there such a wine at the Three Cranes, in the Vintry, to my knowledge; but if you find better sack than that in the Sheres, or in the Canaries either, I would I may never touch either pot or penny more.  Why, hold it up betwixt you and the light, you shall see the little motes dance in the golden liquor like dust in the sunbeam.  But I would rather draw wine for ten clowns than one traveller.—­I trust your honour likes the wine?”

“It is neat and comfortable, mine host; but to know good liquor, you should drink where the vine grows.  Trust me, your Spaniard is too wise a man to send you the very soul of the grape.  Why, this now, which you account so choice, were counted but as a cup of bastard at the Groyne, or at Port St. Mary’s.  You should travel, mine host, if you would be deep in the mysteries of the butt and pottle-pot.”

“In troth, Signior Guest,” said Giles Gosling, “if I were to travel only that I might be discontented with that which I can get at home, methinks I should go but on a fool’s errand.  Besides, I warrant you, there is many a fool can turn his nose up at good drink without ever having been out of the smoke of Old England; and so ever gramercy mine own fireside.”

“This is but a mean mind of yours, mine host,” said the stranger; “I warrant me, all your town’s folk do not think so basely.  You have gallants among you, I dare undertake, that have made the Virginia voyage, or taken a turn in the Low Countries at least.  Come, cudgel your memory.  Have you no friends in foreign parts that you would gladly have tidings of?”