A wooden settle ran half round the hearthstone on the side farthest from the draught of the door.

The weary three sat down and stretched their limbs.

The fire had burnt low, and Sholto, reaching to a faggot heap by the side wall, began to toss on boughs of green birch in handfuls, till the lovely white flame arose and the sap spat and hissed in explosive puffs.
_"Birk when 'tis green Makes a fire for a king!"_ Malise hummed the old Scots lines, and the cripple coming in at that moment raised a shrill bark of protest.
"My good wood, my fuel that cost me so many sore backs--be careful, young sir.

Faggots of birch are dear in this country of Machecoul.

My lord is of those who give nothing for naught." "Oh, we shall surely pay for what we use," cried careless James; "let us eat, and warm our toes, and therewith have somewhat less of thy prating, old dotard.