'They are all asleep at my grandmother's,' he informed her when he re-
entered, panting, with the dripping pitcher. 'They imagine me to be a
hundred miles off.' The birds were now ready, and the table was spread. With this fare, eked
out by dry toast from the loaf, and moistened with cups of water from the
pitcher, to which Swithin added a little wine from the flask he had
carried on his journey, they were forced to be content for their supper.