He stooped and drawing the pointed soft leather shoes from his
feet, he threw them upon the now blazing fagots, where they
writhed and twisted and wrinkled, and at last burst into a
flame. Meanwhile Hans lost no time; he must find a hiding-place,
and quickly, if he would yet hope to escape. A great bread
trough stood in the corner of the kitchen - a hopper-shaped
chest with a flat lid. It was the best hiding place that the
room afforded. Without further thought Hans ran to it, snatching
up from the table as he passed a loaf of black bread and a
bottle half full of stale wine, for he had had nothing to eat
since that morning. Into the great bread trough he climbed, and
drawing the lid down upon him, curled himself up as snugly as a
mouse in its nest.

For a while the kitchen lay in silence, but at last the sound of
voices was heard at the door, whispering together in low tones.
Suddenly the door was flung open and a tall, lean, lantern-jawed
fellow, clad in rough frieze, strode into the room and stood
there glaring with half frightened boldness around about him;
three or four women and the trembling scullion crowded together
in a frightened group behind him.

The man was Long Jacob, the bowman; but, after all, his boldness
was all wasted, for not a thread or a hair was to be seen, but
only the crackling fire throwing its cheerful ruddy glow upon
the wall of the room, now rapidly darkening in the falling gray
of the twilight without.

The fat cook's fright began rapidly to turn into anger.