"Perhaps the gibbet."

"It's true that the thieving craft is a curst craft for the gallows, but
to-morrow's trouble is like yesterday's dinner, not worth thinking on. We
are here, safe and comfortable. Let that suffice. And to-day, so far from
doing harm at which you must needs be uneasy, you have wrought a miracle."

"Wrought a miracle? What do you mean?"

"You have found a cabbage, and made a man. Good night, Mistress Waynflete."

"Good night, Master Wheatman."

I imitated the regular breathing of a tired, sleeping man. In a few
minutes it became clear that she was really asleep, and I pretended no
longer, but stretched out comfortably in the fragrant hay and soon slept
like a log.



CHAPTER VIII

THE CONJURER'S CAP


I awoke between darkness and daylight. Mistress Waynflete still slept
peacefully and there was as yet no need to rouse her. I had slept in my
shoes, but now, I drew them off, lifted the bar of the door, and stole out
to look around. Not a soul was stirring about the farm, and the only