The next day was wet and autumnal, with a sweeping east wind which
blew raw and gustily over the dark grass and drooping trees that
edged the muddy lane of the village of Tilly.
At the few houses in the village everything was quiet, except at the
old-fashioned inn, with its low, covered gallery and swinging sign
of the Tilly Arms.
There, flitting round the door, or occasionally peering through the
windows of the tap-room, with pipes in their mouths and perchance a
tankard in their hands, were seen the elders of the village,
boatmen, and habitans, making use, or good excuse, of a rainy day
for a social gathering in the dry, snug chimney-corner of the Tilly
Arms.
In the warmest corner of all, his face aglow with firelight and good
liquor, sat Master Pothier dit Robin, with his gown tucked up to his
waist as he toasted his legs and old gamashes in the genial warmth
of a bright fire.
He leaned back his head and twirled his thumbs for a few minutes
without speaking or listening to the babble around him, which had
now turned upon the war and the latest sweep of the royal
commissaries for corn and cattle.
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