Now Georgios said that he must be going, as he had sent back his guide to Southminster, where the man desired to eat his Christmas feast.  So the reckoning was paid—­it was a long one—­and while the horses were harnessed to the wain the merchant bored holes in the little cask of wine and set spigots in them, bidding them all be sure to drink of it that night.  Then calling down good fortune on them for their kindness and liberality, he made his salaams in the Eastern fashion, and departed, accompanied by Wulf.

Within five minutes there was a sound of shouting, and Wulf was back again saying that the wheel of the wain had broken at the first turn, so that now it was lying upon its side in the courtyard.  Sir Andrew and Godwin went out to see to the matter, and there they found Georgios wringing his hands, as only an Eastern merchant can, and cursing in some foreign tongue.

“Noble knights,” he said, “what am I to do?  Already it is nearly dark, and how I shall find my way up yonder steep hill I know not.  As for the priceless broideries, I suppose they must stay here for the night, since that wheel cannot be mended till to-morrow—­”

“As you had best do also,” said Sir Andrew kindly.  “Come, man, do not grieve; we are used to broken axles here in Essex, and you and your servant may as well eat your Christmas dinners at Steeple as in Southminster.”

“I thank you, Sir knight; I thank you.  But why should I, who am but a merchant, thrust myself upon your noble company?  Let me stop outside with my man, Petros, and dine with your people in that barn, where I see they are making ready their food.”

“By no means,” answered Sir Andrew.  “Leave your servant with my people, who will look after him, and come you into the hall, and tell me some more of Cyprus till our food is ready, which will be soon.  Do not fear for your goods; they shall be placed under cover.”

“All unworthy as I am, I obey,” answered the obsequious Georgios.  “Petros, do you understand?  This noble lord gives us hospitality for the night.  His people will show you where to eat and sleep, and help you with your horses.”

This man, who, he explained, was a Cypriote—­a fisherman in summer and a muleteer in winter—­bowed, and fixing his dark eyes upon those of his master, spoke in some foreign tongue.

“You hear what he says, the silly fellow?” said Georgios.  “What?  You do not understand Greek—­only Arabic?  Well, he asks me to give him money to pay for his dinner and his night’s lodging.  You must forgive him, for he is but a simple peasant, and cannot believe that anyone may be lodged and fed without payment.  I will explain to him, the pig!” And explain he did in shrill, high notes, of which no one else could understand a word.

“There, Sir Knight, I do not think he will offend you so again.  Ah! look.  He is walking off—­he is sulky.  Well, let him alone; he will be back for his dinner, the pig!  Oh, the wet and the wind!  A Cypriote does not mind them in his sheepskins, in which he will sleep even in the snow.”