"If you are minded to bolt," I said, "remember you have a
charge of gunpowder lobbing below your chin. I have but to flash my
pistol into it, and they will be picking the bits of you off the high
trees."
I took the rascal, his knees knocking under him, straight to the
ordinary where the English merchants chiefly forgathered. A dozen of
them sat over a bowl of punch, when the door was opened and I kicked my
Guy Fawkes inside. I may have misjudged them, but I thought every eye
looked furtive as they saw my prisoner.
"Gentlemen," said I, "I restore you your property. This is a penitent
thief who desires to make a confession."
My pistol was at his temple, the powder was round his neck, and he must
have seen a certain resolution in my face. Anyhow, sweating and
quaking, he blurted out his story, and when he offered to halt I made
rings with the barrel on the flesh of his neck.
"It is a damned lie," cried one of them, a handsome, over-dressed
fellow who had been conspicuous for his public insolence towards me.
"Nay," said I, "our penitent's tale has the note of truth. One word to
you, gentlemen. I am hospitably inclined, and if any one of you will so
far honour me as to come himself instead of dispatching his servant,
his welcome will be the warmer.
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