at the far end of the Pig Market, and behind him an old lackey, bent
double with the weight of two great baskets that he carried. The
baskets were piled with books, clothes, and gewgaws of all kinds;
and 'twas the young gentleman that hawked his wares himself. "_What
d'ye lack?_" he kept shouting, and would stop to unfold his
merchandise, holding up now a book, and now a silk doublet, and
running over their merits like any huckster--but with the merriest
conceit in the world.

And yet 'twas not this that sent my heart flying into my mouth at
the sight of him. For by his curls and womanish face, no less than
the amber cloak with the black bars, I knew him at once for the same
I had seen yesterday among the dicers.

As I stood there, drawn this way and that by many reflections, he
worked his way through the press, selling here and there a trifle
from his baskets, and at length came to a halt in front of me.

"Ha!" he cried, pulling off his plumed hat, and bowing low, "a
scholar, I perceive. Let me serve you, sir. Here is the 'History of
Saint George,'" and he picked out a thin brown quarto and held it
up; "written by Master Peter Heylin; a ripe book they tell me
(though, to be sure, I never read beyond the title), and the price
a poor two shillings."

[Illustration: "A scholar, I perceive. Let me serve you sir?"--Page
30.]

Now, all this while I was considering what to do. So, as I put my
hand in my pocket, and drew out the shillings, I said very slowly,