“This is discouraging news,” said Cugel. “Is there no other route to the lands of the south?”

“Indeed there is,” said the witch-chaser, “and I recommend it. Return north along the trail to the Great Erm, and proceed eastward across the extent of the forest, which becomes even denser and more dread. Needless to say, you will need a stout arm and feet with wings to escape the vampires, grues, erbs and leucomorphs. After penetrating to the remote edge of the forest you must swing south to the Vale of Dharad, where according to rumor an army of basilisks besieges the ancient city Mar. Should you win past the raging battle, the Great Central Steppe lies beyond; where is neither food nor water and which is the haunt of the pelgrane. Crossing the steppe, you turn your face back to the west, and now you wade a series of poisonous swamps. Beyond lies an area of which I know nothing except that it is named the Land of Evil Recollection. After crossing this region you will find yourself at a point to the south of the Mountains of Magnatz.”

Cugel mused a moment or two. “The route which you delineate, while it may be safer and less taxing than the direct way south, seems of inordinate length. I am disposed to risk the Mountains of Magnatz.”

The first peasant inspected him with awe. “I surmise you to be a noted wizard, seething with spells.”

Cugel gave his head a smiling shake. “I am Cugel the Clever; no more, no less. And now — wine!”

The landlord presently brought forth supper: a stew of tentils and land-crabs garnished with wild ramp and bilberries.

After the meal the two peasants drank a final cup of wine and departed, while Cugel, the host and the witch-chaser sat before the fire discussing various aspects of existence. The witch-chaser finally arose to retire to his chamber. Before departing he approached Cugel, and spoke in a frank manner. “I have noticed tfour cloak, which is of quality rarely seen in this backward region. Since you are as good as dead, why do you not bestow this cloak upon me, who has need of it?”

Cugel tersely rejected the proposal and went to his own chamber.

During the night he was aroused by a scraping sound near the foot of his bed. Leaping to his feet, he captured a person of no great stature. When hauled out into the light, the intruder proved to be the pot-boy, still clutching Cugel's shoes, which he evidently had intended to purloin. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” demanded Cugel, cuffing the lad. “Speak! How dare you attempt such an act!”

The pot-boy begged Cugel to desist. “What difference does it make? A doomed man needs no such elegant footwear!”

“I will be the judge of that,” said Cugel. “Do you expect me to walk barefoot to my death in the Mountains of Magnatz? Be off with you!” And he sent the wretched lad sprawling down the hall.