"And no chance of adding anything to the stock of three guilders which must suffice us for to-night," concluded Diogenes airily.
He was carefully wiping the shining blade of Bucephalus with the corner of Pythagoras' mantle.
"Verrek jezelf! and what the d —— l?" queried the latter in a high falsetto.
"My mantle is almost new," said Diogenes reproachfully; "thou would'st not have me soil it so soon?"
"I have a hole in my head fit to bury those three guilders in," murmured Socrates, with a sigh.
"And I a blow in the stomach which has chilled me to the marrow," sighed Pythagoras.
"And I a bruised shoulder," laughed Diogenes, "which hath engendered an unquenchable thirst."
"I wouldn't sell my thirst for any money this night," assented Pythagoras.
"To the 'Lame Cow,' then, O Pythagoras, and I'll toss thee for the first drink of hot ale."
"Ugh! but my head feels mightily hot and thick," said Socrates, somewhat huskily.
"Surely thou canst walk as far as the 'Lame Cow'?" queried Pythagoras, anxiously.
"I doubt me," sighed the other.
"Ale!" whispered Diogenes, encouragingly; "warm, sparkling, spicy ale!"
"Hm! hm!" assented the wounded man feebly.
"Easy! easy, my friend," said Diogenes, for his brother philosopher had fallen heavily against him.
"What are we to do?" moaned Pythagoras, in his dulcet tones. "I have a thirst ... and we cannot leave this irresponsible fool to faint here in the fog."
"Hoist him up by the seat of his breeches, then on to my back," retorted Diogenes lightly. "The 'Lame Cow' is not far, and I too have a thirst."
Socrates would have protested. He did not relish the idea of being tossed about like a bale of goods on his friend's back. But he could only protest by word of mouth, to which the others paid no heed; and when he tried to struggle he rolled, dizzy and faint, almost to the ground.
"There's nothing for it," piped Pythagoras with consummate philosophy. "I couldn't carry him if I tried."
Diogenes bent his broad back and rested his hands on his thighs, getting as firm hold of the slippery ground as he could. Socrates for the moment was like a helpless log. There was much groping about in the darkness, a good deal of groaning, and a vast amount of swearing. Socrates had, fortunately, not fainted, and after a little while was able to settle down astride on his friend's back, his arms around the latter's neck, Pythagoras giving vigorous pushes from the rear.
When Diogenes, firmly grasping the wounded man's legs, was at last able to straighten himself out again, and did so to the accompaniment of a mighty groan and still more mighty oath, he found himself confronted by two lanthorns which were held up within a few inches of his nose.
"Dondersteen!" he ejaculated loudly, and nearly dropped his half-conscious and swaying burden on the ground.
"What is it now, Jakob?" queried a woman's voice peremptorily.
"I cannot see clearly, lady," replied one of the lanthorn-bearers — "two men I think."
"Then do thy thoughts proclaim thee a liar, friend," said Diogenes lightly; "there are three men here at this lady's service, though one is sick, the other fat, and the third a mere beast of burden."
"Let me see them, Jakob," ordered the woman. "I believe they are the same three men who...."
The lanthorn-bearers made way for the lady, still holding the lanthorns up so that the light fell fully on the quaint spectacle presented by the three philosophers. There was Socrates perched up aloft, his bird-like face smeared with blood, his eyes rolling in their effort to keep open, his thin back bent nearly double so that indeed he looked like a huge plucked crow the worse for a fight, and perched on an eminence where he felt none too secure. And below him his friend with broad shoulders bending under the burden, his plumed hat shading his brow, his merry, twinkling eyes fixed a little suspiciously on the four figures that loomed out of the fog in front of him, his mocking lips ready framed for a smile or an oath, his hands which supported the legs of poor wounded Socrates struggling visibly toward the hilt of his sword. And peeping round from behind him the short, rotund form of Pythagoras, crowned with a tall sugar-loaf hat which obviously had never belonged to him until now, for it perched somewhat insecurely above his flat, round face, with the small, upturned nose slightly tinged with pink and the tiny eyes, round and bright as new crowns.
Undoubtedly the sight was ludicrous in the extreme, and the woman who looked on it now burst into a merry peal of laughter.
"O Maria! dost see them?" she said, turning to her companion, an elderly woman in sober black gown and coif of tinsel lace. "Hast ever seen anything so quaint?"
She herself was young, and in the soft light of the two lanthorns appeared to the three philosophers to be more than passing fair.
"Socrates, thou malapert," said Diogenes sternly, "take my hat off my head at once, and allow me to make obeisance to the lady, or I'll drop thee incontinently on thy back."
Then, as Socrates half mechanically lifted the plumed hat from his friend's head, the latter bowed as well as he could under the circumstances and said gallantly:
"Thy servants, lady, and eternally grateful are we for a sight of thee at this moment when the world appeared peculiarly fog-ridden and unpleasant. Having been the fortunate cause of thy merriment, might we now crave thy permission to continue our way. The weight of my friend up there is greater than his importance warrants, and I don't want to drop him ere we reach a haven of refuge, where our priceless thirst will soon, I hope, find solace."
The delicate face of the young girl had suddenly become more grave.
"Your pardon, gentle sirs," she said, with a pretty mixture of imperiousness and humility; "my levity was indeed misplaced. I know ye now for the same three brave fellows who were fighting a few moments ago against overwhelming odds, in order to protect a woman against a rowdy crowd. Oh, it was a valorous deed! My men and I were on our way to watch-night service, and saw it all from a distance. We dared not come nigh, the rabble looked so threatening. All I could do was to shout for help, and summon the town guard to your aid. It was you, was it not?" she added, regarding with great wondering blue eyes the three curious figures who stood somewhat sheepishly before her.
"Yes, fair lady," piped Pythagoras, in his neatest falsetto, "we were the three men who, in the face of well-nigh overwhelming odds, did save a defenceless woman from the insolent rabble. My friend who is perched up there was severely wounded in the fray, I myself received so violent a blow in the stomach that a raging thirst has since taken possession of my throat, and —— "
He stopped abruptly and murmured a comprehensive oath. He had just received a violent kick in the shins from Diogenes.
"What the h —— ?" he muttered.
But Diogenes paid no heed to him; looking on the dainty picture before him, with eyes that twinkled whilst they did not attempt to conceal the admiration which he felt, he said, with elaborate gallantry, which his position under the burden of Socrates' swaying figure rendered inexpressibly droll:
"For the help rendered to us all at the moment of distress, deign to accept, mejuffrouw, our humble thanks. For the rest, believe me, our deed was not one of valour, and such as it was it is wholly unworthy of the praise thou dost deign to bestow upon it. I would tell thee more," he added, whimsically, "only that my friend behind me is violently kicking the calves of my legs, which renders the elegant flow of language well nigh impossible. I stopped him talking just now — he retaliates ... it is but just."
"Gentle sir," said the girl, who obviously had much ado to preserve her gravity, "your modesty doth but equal your gallantry. This do I see quite plainly. But if at any time I can do aught to express in a more practical manner the real admiration which I feel