ABSTRACT
Eventually, they found the scapegoat sleeping tunefully in a bed of dirty straw, on the steep, cobbled wynd behind the stables of the inn. It had clearly just had a meal of cabbage stalks, apple cores and old hunks of bread, for the remains of such was scattered amongst the straw having been purloined from the waste the potboy had lobbed over the hatch earlier that evening. It appeared to be dreaming; as it slept, its rhythmic snoring and wheezing hummed an odd but not altogether unpleasant melody.
