Then there came a voice from behind the door:  “There is no inn nearer than Pornic.  We are poor people and cannot support one.  We pray your highness to depart in peace.”

“But, good sir,” answered James Douglas, “that we cannot do.  Our steeds are foot weary with a long day’s journey.  Give us the shelter of your barns and a bundle of fodder and we will be content.  We have food and drink with us.  Open, and be not afraid.”

“Of what country are you?  Are you of the household of the Sieur de Retz?”

“Nay,” cried James again, “we are pilgrims returning to our own city of Albi in the Tarn country.  We know nothing of any Sieur de Retz.  Look forth from a window and satisfy yourself.”

“Then if there be treachery in your hearts, beware,” said the tremulous voice again; “for I have four young men here by me whose powder guns are even now ready to fire from all the windows if you mean harm.”

A white face looked out for a moment from the casement, and as quickly ducked within.  Then the voice continued its bleating.

“My lords, I will open the door.  But forgive the fears of a poor old man in a wide, empty house.”

The door opened and a curious figure appeared within.  It was a man apparently decrepit and trembling, who in one hand carried a lantern and in the other a staff over which he bent with many wheezings of exhausted breath.

“What would you with a poor old man?” he said.

“We would have shelter and fodder, if it please you to give them to us for the sake of God’s grace.”

The old man trembled so vehemently that he was in danger of shaking out the rushlight which flickered dismally in his wooden lantern.

“I am a poor, poor man,” he quavered; “I have naught in the world save some barley meal and a little water.”

“That will do famously,” said James Douglas; “we are hungry men, and will pay well for all you give us.”

The countenance of the cripple instantly changed.  He looked up at the speaker with an alert expression.

“Pay,” he said, “pay—­did you not say you would pay?  Why, I thought you were gentlefolks!  Now, by that I know that you are none, but of the commonalty like myself.”

James Douglas took a gold angel out of his belt and threw it to him.  The cripple collapsed upon the top of the piece of money and groped vainly for it with eager, outspread fingers in the dust of the yard.

“I cannot find it, good gentleman,” he piped, shrill as an east wind; “alas, what shall I do?  Poor Caesar cannot find it.  It was not a piece of gold;—­do tell me that it was not a piece of gold; to lose a piece of gold, that were ruin indeed.”

Sholto picked up the lantern which had slipped from his trembling hand.  The tallow was beginning to gutter out as it lay on its side, and a moment’s search showed him the gold glittering on some farmyard rubbish.  With a little shrill cry like a frightened bird the old man fell upon it, as it had been with claws.