The Wife of Flanders
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From the bed set high on a dais came eerie spasms of laughter, a harsh cackle like fowls at feeding time.
‘Is that the last of them, Anton?’ said a voice.
A little serving-man with an apple-hued face bowed in reply. He bowed with difficulty, for in his arms he held a huge grey cat, which still mewed with the excitement of the chase. Rats had been turned loose on the floor, and it had accounted for them to the accompaniment of a shrill urging from the bed. Now the sport was over, and the domestics who had crowded round the door to see it had slipped away, leaving only Anton and the cat.
‘Give Tib a full meal of offal,’ came the order, ‘and away with yourself. Your rats are a weak breed. Get me the stout grey monsters like Tuesday se’ennight.’
The room was
