"Yes?" he said dubiously. "And to what market are you
taking it?"
"I am offering it to you," said I.
"To me?" he cried, and instantly suspicion entered his crafty eye and
darkened his brow. "Where got you the mule?" he asked, and snapped his
lips together.
The girl entering at that moment stood at gaze, listening.
"Where did I get it?" I echoed. "What is that to you?"
He smiled unpleasantly. "It is this to me: that if the bargelli were to
come up here and discover a stolen mule in my stables, it would be an ill
thing for me."
I flushed angrily. "Do you imply that I stole the mule?" said I, so
fiercely that he changed his air.
"Nay now, nay now," he soothed me. "And, after all, it happens that I do
not want a mule. I have one mule already, and I am a poor man, and..."
"A fig for your whines," said I. "Here is the case. I have no money--not
a grosso. So the mule must pay for my dinner. Name your price, and let us
have done."
"Ha!" he fumed at me. "I am to buy your stolen beast, am I? I am to be
frightened by your violence into buying it? Be off, you rogue, or I'll
raise the village and make short work of you. Be off, I say!"
He backed away as he spoke, towards the fireplace, and from the corner took
a stout oaken staff. He was a villain, a thieving rogue.
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