"I told you to bring me a pint of ale," said I to her in her own
language.
"You shall have it immediately, sir," said she, and going to a
cask, she filled a jug with ale, and after handing it to me resumed
her seat and knitting.
"It is not very bad ale," said I, after I had tasted it.
"It ought to be very good," said the old woman, "for I brewed it
myself."
"The goodness of ale," said I, "does not so much depend on who
brews it as on what it is brewed of. Now there is something in
this ale which ought not to be. What is it made of?"
"Malt and hop."
"It tastes very bitter," said I. "Is there no chwerwlys (13) in
it?"
"I do not know what chwerwlys is," said the old woman.
"It is what the Saxons call wormwood," said I.
"Oh, wermod. No, there is no wermod in my beer, at least not
much."
"Oh, then there is some; I thought there was. Why do you put such
stuff into your ale?"
"We are glad to put it in sometimes when hops are dear, as they are
this year. Moreover, wermod is not bad stuff, and some folks like
the taste better than that of hops."
"Well, I don't. However, the ale is drinkable. What am I to give
you for the pint?"
"You are to give me a groat."
"That is a great deal," said I, "for a groat I ought to have a pint
of ale made of the best malt and hops."
"I give you the best I can afford.
