or deeper potations and the smoking of rank black kinnectikut tobacco in
huge wooden pipes.

A heavy thunderstorm, the first of the season, had come up, and Constans
recognized, to his vexation, that he would have no decent excuse for
turning the peddler out-of-doors. So he kept his seat at the table in
sulky silence, watching the man closely, and ready to note anything of
further suspicion in his actions and bearing. But he had his trouble for
his pains, for the fellow was the itinerant chapman to the life, even to
the stock of gross stories with which he kept his bucolic audience in an
uninterrupted guffaw. Pah! would Sir Gavan never finish his second pipe
and give the signal to rise?

The storm had turned into a heavy downpour, and the peddler was
consequently sure of his night's lodging. He had been summoned again to
the presence of the ladies, and, as before, Constans stood aloof and
wondered irritably how his fastidious sister could find aught in common
with this wayside huckster. She was talking to him now with an animation
rare with her, her checks flushed and her eyes glowing.

"And you have been in Doom--in the city itself?" she asked,
incredulously.

"Yes, gracious lady; and not once, but a score of times. The brocades
that I promised to show you after supper will be my witness. And there
are some superlative satin and silk lengths which my Lady Rayne wished
particularly to see. Will you allow me, then?"

The peddler, opening an inner compartment of his pack, drew out several
pieces of stuff wrapped up in brown linen. Removing the covering, he
spread the goods upon the rug before the ladies, holding up each
separate piece to the light and expatiating upon its merits in the
approved fashion of the shopman. The two women gave a little gasp of
astonishment; never had they seen such wondrous beauty of color and
finish; their little market-town of Croye held nothing to compare to
this.

"I must send for Meta to advise me," said the Lady Rayne, glancing
fondly from one rich fabric to another. "She ought to know good silk
when she sees it, after living so long in Croye; and you, Issa, seem
strangely indifferent to-night. You hardly looked at this piece of
brocade."

Meta, the Lady Rayne's bedwoman, speedily appeared, and mistress and
maid fell into earnest converse. Issa, as in duty bound, listened; then
her attention seemed to flag again. She bent over the open pack and
picked up a chain of filigree work.