"In good time!" cried Ridley; "here's the Poticary's sign! You had
best halt here at once."
In front of a high-roofed house with a projecting upper story, hung a
sign bearing a green serpent on a red ground, over a stall, open to
the street, which the owner was sheltering with a deep canvas awning.
"Hola, Master Lambert Groats," called Ridley. "Here's the young
demoiselle of Whitburn would have some dealings with you."
Jumping off his horse, he helped Grisell to dismount just as a small,
keen-faced, elderly man in dark gown came forward, doffing his green
velvet cap, and hoping the young lady would take shelter in his poor
house.
Grisell, glancing round the little booth, was aware of sundry
marvellous curiosities hanging round, such as a dried crocodile, the
shells of tortoises, of sea-urchins and crabs, all to her eyes most
strange and weird; but Master Lambert was begging her to hasten in at
once to his dwelling-room beyond, and let his wife dry her clothes,
and at once there came forward a plump, smooth, pleasant-looking
personage, greatly his junior, dressed in a tight gold-edged cap over
her fair hair, a dark skirt, black bodice, bright apron, and white
sleeves, curtseying low, but making signs to invite the newcomers to
the fire on the hearth. "My housewife is stone deaf," explained
their host, "and she knows no tongue save her own, and the unspoken
language of courtesy, but she is rejoiced to welcome the demoiselle.
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