Said a man, One had better sing or tell tales if he would have “us” keep awake.
The proposal being generally approved of by the company, Ferrando settled himself easily in his seat, and told them the old, old tale.
“Draw about me—all of ye. Thus it was. The old count had two dear sons—the cares of his heart. Well—they were sleeping peacefully—their good nurse near them, when she awoke and saw—now, my comrades—what did she see?”
“Go to!”—and “go on!”
“A hag—of a verity, a hag! And, of a verity, she screamed aloud, which brought about her a score or so of frightened men, who bestruck themselves strong enough to drive forth the hag with many a blow. Well, what then, my comrades?”
“Aye—what then?”
“The child dwindled till his flesh was as colorless as the white of thine eye, Gomez. Nay, start not, man. And he hath screamed, as child has never screamed before. Wherefore and thereupon, my comrades, they did search out the hag—fall upon her bravely, and fitly burn her. But, my faith, she had a daughter. By the rood, such a daughter! She hath sworn, my comrades, as I, man-at-arms, would never so beswear myself, she hath sworn to destroy the little one; and she hath done it;—for he is lost—gone—and there’s an end, on’t.”
“And therefore hath the old count died?”
“He hath died o’ heart-crack, a sore complaint, my comrades.”
“And the living count——?”