had haunted the hostelry from its evil dawn. Such guttering lights
and glimmering flames as lit the place--for there was a small fire
on the wide hearth in spite of the fine weather--peopled the gloom
with fantastic quivering shadows as of lean fingers that unfolded
themselves to filch, or clenched themselves to stab in the back. But
its patrons seemed to like the place well enough in spite of its
miasma, and Master Robin Turgis, the fat landlord, drowsy with his
own wine and dripping from the heat, surveyed them complacently, and
wallowed as it were in the rattle and clink of mug and can, the
full-throated laughter and the shrill chatter, crisply emphasized by
oaths, which assured him of the Fircone's popularity with its
intimates. Master Robin's intelligence was limited; his wit was
simple; the processes of his mind moved easily along the lines of
least resistance. The Burgundians might be hammering with mailed
fists at the walls of Paris; the fire-new crown of Louis the
Eleventh might be falling from the royal forehead: it mattered not a
jot to dishonest Robin so long as the Fircone brimmed with company.

There was enough company in the room on this evening to content even
his wish. It was not the kind of company that a wise man would
desire to keep, but it delighted the innkeeper, for it drank deeply
and spent freely, and in Robin's view it was of no more concern to
him how the money that changed hands was come by than it was how the
profound potations might affect the brains and stomachs of his
clients. If any officer of the law had questioned him as to his
association with a certain mysterious Brotherhood of the
Cockleshells whose plunderings and pilferings were the pride of the
Court of Miracles and the fear of citizens with strong boxes, he
would have shrugged his fat shoulders and shaken his round head and
disowned all knowledge of any such unlawful corporation. Yet his