The Death of Stout Henry

“This man,” shouted the Magistrate, “who has come before us, an inhuman wretch, devoid of pity; void and empty; stands before you exposed. Let they who have issue with him come forth, and tell to us his crimes.” “Crimes?” grinned Stout Henry, his quilted jerkin somewhat soiled, the tattered cape with an embroidered wolf on the back, its muzzle raised to howl at the moon, much the worse for wear. “The only crime here is how little you offered for those good, solid candlesticks that look JUST LIKE GOLD. I could get twice as much in Greenswold, you know.” ...