The woman looks at them as bold as brass, and stalks off with her man.
Half an hour afterwards, two of the magistrates riding away from the town pass a small tavern on the outskirts.

A travelling van is outside, and from the chimney on its roof thin smoke arises.

There is a little group at the doorway, and among them stands the late prisoner.

Oby holds a foaming tankard in one hand, and touches his battered hat, as the magistrates go by, with a gesture of sly humility..