said he, 'too late!' and gnashed his teeth. Then I told him 'too late'
was the divell's favourite whisper in repentant ears. Said I--

'The Lord is debonair,
Let sinners nought despair.'

'Too late!' said he, and gnashed his teeth, and writhed his face, as
though vipers were biting his inward parts. But, dear heart, his was a
mind like running water. Ere we cleared the town he was carolling, and
outside the gate hung the other culprit, from the bough of a little
tree, and scarce a yard above the ground. And that stayed my vagabone's
music. But ere we had gone another furlong, he feigned to have dropped
his, rosary, and ran back, with no good intent, as you shall hear.
I strolled on very slowly, and often halting, and presently he came
stumping up on one leg, and that bandaged. I asked him how he could
contrive that, for 'twas masterly done. 'Oh, that was his mystery. Would
I know that, I must join the brotherhood.' And presently we did pass
a narrow lane, and at the mouth on't espied a written stone, telling
beggars by a word like a wee pitchfork to go that way. ''Tis yon
farmhouse,' said he: 'bide thou at hand.' And he went to the house, and
came back with money, food, and wine. 'This lad did the business,' said
he, slapping his one leg proudly. Then he undid the bandage, and with
prideful face showed me a hole in his calf you could have put your neef
in. Had I been strange to his tricks, here was a leg had drawn my last
penny. Presently another farmhouse by the road. He made for it. I stood,
and asked myself, should I run away and leave him, not to be shamed in
my own despite by him? But while I doubted, there was a great noise,
and my master well cudgelled by the farmer and his men, came towards me
hobbling and holloaing, for the peasants had laid on heartily. But more
trouble was at his heels. Some mischievous wight loosed a dog as big as
a jackass colt, and came roaring after him, and downed him momently. I,
deeming the poor rogue's death certain, and him least fit to die, drew
my sword and ran shouting. But ere I could come near, the muckle dog had
torn away his bad leg, and ran growling to his lair with it; and Cul de
Jatte slipped his knot, and came running like a lapwing, with his hair
on end, and so striking with both crutches before and behind at unreal
dogs as 'twas like a windmill crazed. He fled adown the road. I followed
leisurely, and found him at dinner. 'Curse the quiens,' said he. And not
a