“Lob, Lobkyn heCommandeth theeTo let her beAnd set her free,Thou scurvy, cutpurse, outlaw knave,Lest hanged thou beUpon a treeFor rogueryAnd villainy,Thou knavish, misbegotten slave;For proud is sheOf high degree,As unto yeExplicitly—”
“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, rising and drawing sword. “Now, be thou imp of Satan, fiend accursed, or goblin fell, come forth, and I with steel will try thee, Thing!”
Out from the leaves forthwith crawled a dwarf bowed of leg, mighty of shoulder, humped of back, and with arms very long and thick and hairy. In one great fist he grasped a ponderous club shod with iron spikes, and now, resting his hands on this and his chin on his hands, he scowled at the Knight, yet grinned also.
“Ho!” he cried, rolling big head in threatening fashion:
“Vile dog, thy rogue's sconce cracked shall be, Thy base-born bones be-thwacked shall be. I'll deal thee many a dour ding For that thou darest name me—Thing!”
“Now, as I live!” said Sir Pertinax, scowling also. “Here will I, and with great joyance, cleave me thine impish mazzard and split thee to thy beastly chine. And for thy ill rhyming:
“I with this goodly steel will halve theeAnd into clammy goblets carve thee.So stand, Thing, to thy club betake thee,And soon, Thing, I will no-thing make thee.”
But, as they closed on each other with eager and deadly intent, the maid stepped lightly betwixt.
“Stay, soldier—hold!” she commanded. “Here is none but Lobkyn Lollo—poor, brave Lob, nor will I suffer him to harm thee.”
“How, maiden?” snorted the good Knight fiercely. “Harm me, say'st thou—yon puny Thing?”
“Truly, soldier!” said she, roguish-eyed. “For though thou art very ungentle, harsh of tongue, of visage grim and manners rude—I would not have Lob harm thee—yet!”
Now hereupon our bold Sir PertinaxWith indignation red of face did wax.The needful word his tongue was vainly seeking,Since what he felt was quite beyond the speaking.Though quick his hand to ward or give a blow,His tongue all times unready was and slow,Therefore he speechless looked upon the maid,Who viewed him 'neath her lashes' dusky shade,Whence Eros launched a sudden beamy dartThat 'spite chain-mail did reach and pierce his heart.And in that instant Pertinax grew wise,And trembled 'neath this forest-maiden's eyes;And trembling, knew full well, seek where he might,No eyes might hold for him such magic light,No lips might hold for him such sweet allure,No other hand might his distresses cure,No other voice might so console and cheer,No foot, light-treading, be so sweet to hearAs the eyes, lips, hand, voice, foot of her who stoodBefore him now, cheek flushing 'neath her hood.All this Sir Pertinax had in his thought,And, wishing much to say to her, said nought,By reason that his tongue was something slow,And of smooth phrases he did little know.But yet 't is likely, though he nothing said,She, maid-like, what he spake not, guessed or readIn his flushed brow, his sudden-gentle eyes,Since in such things all maids are wondrous wise.Now suddenly the brawny Dwarf did cry:“Beware, my old great-grand-dam creepeth nigh!”Thus speaking, 'mid the bushes pointed he,Where crook'd old woman crouched beneath a treeWhence, bowed upon a staff, she towards them came,An ancient, wrinkled, ragged, hag-like dameWith long, sharp nose that downward curved as thoughIt fain would, beak-like, peck sharp chin below.Mutt'ring she came and mowing she drew near,And straightway seized the Dwarf by hairy ear:Fast by the ear this ancient dame did tweak him,And cuffed his head and, cuffing, thus did speak him:“Ha, dolt! Bad elf, and wilt thou slay, indeed,This goodly man did aid me in my need?For this was one that fought within the gateAnd from Black Lewin saved thy grannam's pate!Down, down, fool-lad, upon thy knees, I say,And full forgiveness of this soldier pray.”But Sir Pertinax, perceiving how the old damedid thus tweak and wring at the Dwarf's great,hairy ear even until his eyes watered, interceded,saying:“Good, ancient soul, humble not the sturdy, unlovely,mis-shapen, rascally imp for such smallmatter.”“Nay, but,” croaked the old woman, tighteningclaw-like fingers, “kind master, he would doubtlesshave slain thee.” At this, Sir Pertinax scowled,and would have sworn great oath but, meeting themaid's bright eyes, checked himself, though withmuch ado:“Art so sure,” he questioned, “so sure man ofmy inches may be slain by thing so small?”At this the maid laughed, and the old woman,sighing, loosed the ear she clutched:“Shew thy strength, Lob,” she commanded and,drawing the maiden out of ear-shot, sat down besideher on the sward and fell to eager, whispered talk.Meantime the Dwarf, having cherished his ear,sulkily though tenderly, seized hold upon his greatclub with both hairy hands:And whirling it aloft, with sudden mightA fair, young tree in sunder he did smite,That 'neath the blow it swayed and crashing fell.Quoth Pertinax: “Good Thing, 't is very well.Par Dex, and by the Holy Rood,” quoth he,“'T is just as well that I was not yon tree!”And whirling his long sword as thus he spoke,Shore through another at a single stroke.“Here's tree for tree, stout manling!” he did say.“What other trick canst show to me, I pray?”Then Lobkyn stooped the broken stump to seize,Bowed brawny back and with a wondrous easeUp by the roots the rugged bole he toreAnd tossed it far as it had been a straw.Sad grew our knight this mighty feat perceiving,Since well he knew't was past his own achieving.
But anon he smiled and clapped the mighty Dwarf on shoulder, saying:
“Greeting to thee, lusty Lob, for by Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood, ne'er saw I thine equal, since thou, being man so small, may do what man o' my goodly inches may nowise perform. Thou should'st make a right doughty man-at-arms!”
Hereupon the Dwarf cut a caper but sighed thereafter: quoth he:
“Aha, good master, and Oho,As man-at-arms fain would I go;Aye, verily, I would be so,But that my grannam sayeth 'No!'“And, sir, my grand-dam I obeySince she's a potent witch, they say;Can cast ye spells by night or dayAnd charmeth warts and such away.“Love philtres too she can supplyFor fools that fond and foolish sigh,That wert thou foul as hog in styFair women must unto thee fly.“Then deadly potions she can make,Will turn a man to wriggling snake,Or slimy worm, or duck, or drake,Or loathly frog that croaks in lake.“And she can curse beyond compare,Can curse ye here, or curse ye there;She'll curse ye clad or curse ye bare,In fine, can curse ye anywhere.“And she can summon, so 't is said,From fire and water, spirits dread,Strong charms she hath can wake the deadAnd set the living in their stead.“So thus it is, whate'er she say,My grand-dam, master, I obey.”
“Now by my head,” quoth Sir Pertinax, “an thy grand-dam hath a potency in spells and such black arts—the which is an ill thing—thou hast a powerful gift of versification the which, methinks, is worse. How cometh this distemper o' the tongue, Lobkyn?”
“O master,” spake the sighful Dwarf forlorn,“Like many such diseases, 't is inborn.For even as a baby, IDid pule in rhyme and versify;And the stronger that I grew,My rhyming habit strengthened too,Until my sad sire in despairPut me beneath the Church's care.The holy fathers, 't is confessed,With belt and sandal did their best,But, though they often whipped me sore,I, weeping, did but rhyme the more,Till, finding all their efforts vain,They sadly sent me home again.”
“A parlous case, methinks!” said Sir Pertinax, staring at the Dwarf's rueful visage. “Learned ye aught of the holy fathers?”
“Aye, sir, they taught me truth to tell,To cipher and to read right well;They taught me Latin, sir, and Greek,Though even then in rhyme I'd speak.”
“And thou canst read and write!” exclaimed Sir Pertinax. “So can not I!”
Cried LOB:
“What matter that? Heaven save the mark,Far better be a soldier than a clerk,Far rather had I be a fighterThan learned reader or a writer,Since they who'd read must mope in schools,And they that write be mostly fools.So 'stead of pen give me a sword,And set me where the battle's toward,Where blood—”
But the ancient dame who had risen and approached silently, now very suddenly took Lobkyn by the ear again.
“Talk not of blood and battles, naughty one!” she cried. “Think not to leave thy old grannam lone and lorn and helpless—nor this our fair maid. Shame on thee, Lob, O shame!” saying the which she cuffed him again and soundly.
“Master,” he sighed, “thou seest I may not go,Since that my grand-dam will not have it so.”
“Good mother, wise mother,” said the maid, viewing Sir Pertinax smilingly askance, “why doth poor soldier go bedight in fine linen 'neath rusty hauberk? Why doth poor soldier wear knightly chain about his neck and swear by knightly oath? Good mother, wise mother, rede me this.”
The old woman viewed Pertinax with her bright, quick eyes, but, ere she could answer, he sheathed sword, drew ragged mantle about him, and made to go, but, turning to the maid, bent steel-clad head.
“Most fair damosel,” said he gently, “evening cometh on, and now, since thou art no longer forlorn, I will away.”
“Nay, first, I pray thee, what is thy name?”
“Pertinax, madam.”
“So then doth Melissa thank Pertinax. And now—out alas! Will Pertinax leave Melissa, having but found her?”
Sir Pertinax looked up, looked down, fidgeted with his cloak, and knew not how to answer; wherefore she sighed again, though with eyes full merry 'neath drooping lashes and reached out to him her slender hand. “Aye me, and shall we meet no more, poor soldier?” she questioned softly.
“This I know not,” he answered.
“For thy brave rescue I do give thee my humble thanks, poor soldier.”
“Thy rescue, child?” cried the old woman. “Alack and wert thou seen? Thy rescue, say'st thou?”
“Indeed, good mother, from Sir Agramore's rough foresters. But for thee, thou needy soldier, my gratitude is thine henceforth. Had I aught else to give thee, that were thine also. Is there aught I may? Speak.”
Now Sir Pertinax could not but heed all the rich, warm beauty of her—these eyes so sombrely sweet, her delicate nose, the temptation of her vivid lips—and so spake hot with impulse:
“Aye, truly, sweet maid, truly I would have of thee a—” Her eyes grew bright with laughter, a dimple played wanton in her cheek, and Sir Pertinax was all suddenly abashed, faint-hearted and unsure; thus, looking down, he chanced to espy a strange jewel that hung tremulous upon her moving bosom: a crowned heart within a heart of crystal.
“Well, thou staid and sorry soldier, what would'st have of me?” she questioned.
“Verily,” he muttered, “I would have of thee yon trinket from thy bosom.” Now at his words she started, caught her breath and stared at him wide-eyed; but, seeing his abashment, laughed and loosed off the jewel with quick, small fingers.
“Be it so!” said she. But hereupon the old woman reached out sudden hand.
“Child!” she croaked, “Art mad? Mind ye not the prophecy? Beware the prophecy—beware!
'He that taketh Crystal Heart,Taketh all and every part!'
Beware, I say, Oh, beware!”
“Nay, good mother, have I not promised? And for this crystal it hath brought me nought but unease hitherto. Take it, soldier, and for the sake of this poor maid that giveth, break it not, dishonour it not, and give it to none but can define for thee the secret thereof—and so, poor, brave, fearful soldier—fare thee well!”
Saying which this fair maiden turned, and clasping the Witch's bony arm about her slender loveliness, passed away into the denser wood with Lobkyn Lollo marching grimly behind, his mighty club across his shoulder.
Long stood Sir Pertinax, staring down at the strange jewel in his hand yet seeing it not, for, lost in his dreams, he beheld again two eyes, dusky-lashed and softly bright, a slender hand, a shapelyfoot, while in his ears was again the soft murmur of a maid's voice, a trill of girlish laughter. So lost in meditation was he that becoming aware of a shadow athwart the level sunset-glory, he started, glanced up and into the face of a horseman who had ridden up unheard upon the velvet ling; and this man was tall and armed at points like a knight; the vizor of his plumed casque was lifted, and Sir Pertinax saw a ruddy face, keen-eyed, hawk-nosed, thin-lipped.
“Fellow,” questioned the haughty knight, “what hold ye there?”
“Fellow,” quoth Sir Pertinax, haughty and gruff also, “'t is no matter to thee!” And speaking, he buttoned the jewel into the wallet at his belt.
“Fool!” exclaimed the Knight, staring in amaze, “wilt dare name me 'fellow'? Tell me, didst see three foresters hereabout?”
“Poltroon, I did.”
“Knave, wilt defy me?”
“Rogue, I do!”
“Slave, what did these foresters?”
“Villain, they ran away!”
“Ha, varlet! and wherefore?”
“Caitiff, I drubbed them shrewdly.”
“Dared ye withstand them, dog?”
“Minion, I did.”
“Saw ye not the badge they bore?” demanded the fierce stranger-knight.
“'T was the like of that upon thy shield!” nodded Sir Pertinax grimly.
“Know ye who and what I am, dunghill rogue?”
“No, dog's-breakfast—nor care!” growled Sir Pertinax, whereat the stranger-knight grew sudden red and clenched mailed fist.
“Know then, thou kennel-scourer, that I am Sir
Agramore of Biename, Lord of Swanscote and Hoccom, Lord Seneschal of Tissingors and the March.”
“Ha!” quoth Sir Pertinax, scowling. “So do I know thee for a very rogue ingrain and villain manifest.”
“How!” roared Sir Agramore. “This to my face, thou vile creeper of ditches, thou unsavoury tavern-haunter—this in my teeth!”
“Heartily, heartily!” nodded Sir Pertinax. “And may it choke thee for the knavish carcass thou art.”
At this, and very suddenly, the Knight loosed mace from saddle-bow, and therewith smote Sir Pertinax on rusty bascinet, and tumbled him backward among the bracken. Which done, Sir Agramore laughed full loud and, spurring his charger, galloped furiously away. And after some while Sir Pertinax arose, albeit unsteadily, but finding his legs weak, sat him down again; thereafter with fumbling hands he did off dinted bascinet and viewed it thoughtfully, felt his head tenderly and, crawling to the stream, bathed it solicitously; then, being greatly heartened, he arose and drawing sword, set it upright in the ling and, kneeling, clasped his hands and spake as follows:
“Here and now, upon my good cross-hilt I swear I will with joy and zeal unremitting, seek me out one Sir Agramore of Biename. Then will I incontinent with any, all, or whatsoever weapon he chooseth fall upon him and, for this felon stroke, for his ungentle dealing with the maid, I will forthwith gore, rend, tear, pierce, batter, bruise and otherwise use the body of the said Sir Agramore until, growing aweary of its vile tenement, his viler soul shall flee hence to consume evermore with such unholy knaves as he. And this is the oath of me, Sir Pertinax,
“Knight of Shene, Lord of Westover, Framling, Bracton and Deepdene, to the which oath may the Saints bend gracious ear, in especial Our Holy Lady of Shene Chapel within the Wood—Amen!”
Having registered the which most solemn oath, Sir Pertinax arose, sheathed his sword, and strode blithely towards the fair and prosperous town of Canalise. But, being come within the gate, he was aware of much riot and confusion in the square and streets beyond, and hasting forward, beheld a wild concourse, a pushing, jostling throng of people making great clamour and outcry, above which hubbub ever and anon rose such shouts, as: “Murderer! Thief! Away with him! Death to him!”
By dint of sharp elbow and brawny shoulder our good knight forced himself a way until—surrounded by men-at-arms, his limbs fast bound, his motley torn and bloody, his battered fool's-cap all awry—he beheld Duke Jocelyn haled and dragged along by fierce hands. For a moment Sir Pertinax stood dumb with horror and amaze, then, roaring, clapped hand to sword. Now, hearing this fierce and well-known battle shout, Duke Jocelyn turned and, beholding the Knight, shook bloody head in warning and slowly closed one bright, blue eye; and so, while Sir Pertinax stood rigid and dumb, was dragged away and lost in the fierce, jostling throng.
My daughter GILLIAN propoundeth:GILL: Father, when you began this Geste, I thoughtIt was a poem of a sort.MYSELF: A sort, Miss Pert! A sort, indeed?GILL: Of course—the sort folks love to read.But in the last part we have heardOf poetry there's scarce a word.MYSELF: My dear, if you the early Geste-books read,You'll find that, oft as not, indeed,The wearied Gestours, when by rhyming stumped,Into plain prose quite often jumped.GILL: But, father, dear, the last part seems to meAll prose—as prosy as can be—MYSELF: Ha, prosy, miss! How, do you then suggestOur Geste for you lacks interest?GILL: Not for a moment, father, thoughSir Pertinax was much too slow.When fair Melissa “laughing stood,”He should have kissed—you know heshould—Because, of course, she wished him to.MYSELF: Hum! Girl, I wonder if that's true?GILL: O father, yes! Of course I'm right,And you're as slow as your slow knight.Were you as slow when you were young?MYSELF: Hush, madam! Hold that saucy tongue.You may be sure, in my young days,I was most dutiful always.Grown up, I was, it seems to me,No slower than I ought to be.And now, miss, since you pine for verse,Rhyme with my prose I'll intersperse;And, like a doting father, ITo hold your interest will try.
Which of Duke Joc'lyn's woeful plight doth tell,And all that chanced him pent in dungeon cell.
In gloomy dungeon, scant of air and light,Duke Joc'lyn lay in sad and woeful plight;His hands and feet with massy fetters bound,That clashed, whene'er he moved, with dismal sound;His back against the clammy wall did rest,His heavy head was bowed upon his breast,But, 'neath drawn brows, he watched with wary eyeThree ragged 'wights who, shackled, lay hard by,Three brawny rogues who, scowling, fiercely eyed him,And with lewd gibes and mocking gestures plied him.But Joc'lyn, huddled thus against the wall,Seemed verily to heed them none at all,Wherefore a red-haired rogue who thought he sleptWith full intent upon him furtive crept.But, ere he knew, right suddenly he feltDuke Joc'lyn's battered shoe beneath his belt;And falling back with sudden strangled cry,Flat on his back awhile did breathless lie,Whereat to rage his comrades did begin,And clashed their fetters with such doleful dinThat from a corner dim a fourth man sprang,And laughed and laughed, until their prison rang.“Well kicked, Sir Fool! Forsooth, well done!” laughed he,“Ne'er saw I, Fool, a fool the like o' thee!”Now beholding this tall fellow, Jocelyn knew himfor that same forest-rogue had wrestled with himin the green, and sung for his life the “Song ofRoguery.” Wherefore he smiled on the fellow andthe fellow on him:Quoth JOCELYN: I grieve to seeA man like theeIn such a woeful plight—Quoth the ROGUE: A Fool in fetters,Like his betters,Is yet a rarer sight.
“Ha i' the clout, good fellow, for Folly in fetters is Folly in need, and Folly in need is Folly indeed! But, leaving folly awhile, who art thou and what thy name?”
Saith the ROGUE: Robin I'm named, Sir Fool,Rob by the few,Which few are right, methinks, forso I do.
“Then, Rob, if dost rob thou'rt a robber, and being robber thou'rt perchance in bonds for robbing, Robin?”
“Aye, Fool, I, Rob, do rob and have robbed greater robbers that I might by robbery live to rob like robbers again, as thou, by thy foolish folly, fooleries make, befooling fools lesser than thou, that thou, Fool, by such fool-like fooleries may live to fool like fools again!”
Quoth JOCELYN: Thou robber Rob,By Hob and Gob,Though robber-rogue, I swearThat 't is great pityRogue so prettyMust dance upon thin air.Quoth ROBIN: Since I must dieOn gallows highAnd wriggle in a noose,I'll none repineNor weep nor whine,For where would be the use?Yet sad am IThat I must dieWith rogues so base and small,Sly coney-catchers,Poor girdle-snatchers,That do in kennel crawl.
“And yet,” said Jocelyn, “thou thyself art rogue and thief confessed. How then art better than these thy fellows?”
“By degree, Sir Fool. Even as thou'rt Fool o' folly uncommon, so am I no ordinary rogue, being rogue o' rare parts with power of rogues i' the wild wood, while these be but puny rogues of no parts soever.”
“No rogues are we!” the three did loudly cry,
“But sad, poor souls, that perishing do lie!”
“In me,” quoth one, “behold a man of worth,By trade a dyer and yclepen Gurth;In all this world no man, howe'er he try,Could live a life so innocent as I!”The second spake: “I am the ploughman Rick,That ne'er harmed man or woman, maid or chick!But here in direful dungeon doomed be I,Yet cannot tell the wherefore nor the why.”Then spake Red-head, albeit gasping still:“An honest tanner I, my name is Will;'T was me thou kickedst, Fool, in such ill manner,Of crimes unjust accused—and I, a tanner!”Here Joc'lyn smiled. “Most saintly rogues,” said he;“The Saints, methinks, were rogues compared with ye,And one must needs in prison come who'd findThe noblest, worthiest, best of all mankind.Poor, ill-used knaves, to lie in dungeon pent,Rogues sin-less quite, and eke so innocent,What though your looks another tale do tell,Since I'm your fellow, fellows let us dwell,For if ye're rogues that thus in bonds do lie,So I'm a rogue since here in bonds am I,Thus I, a rogue, do hail ye each a brother,Like brethren, then, we 'll comfort one another.”
Thus spake Jocelyn, whereafter these “saintly rogues” all three grew mightily peevish and, withal, gloomy, while Robin laughed and laughed at them, nodding head and wagging finger.
“Prithee, good Motley,” he questioned, “what should bring so rare a Fool to lie in dungeon fettered and gyved along of innocent rogues and roguish robber?”
Whereto Duke Jocelyn answered on this wise:“Hast heard, belike, of Gui the Red?”(Here went there up a howl)“A mighty lord of whom't is said,That few do love and many dread.”(Here went there up a growl)“This potent lord I chanced to view,Behaving as no lord should do,And thereupon, this lord I threwIn pretty, plashing pool!“Whereon this dreadful lord did getExceeding wroth and very wet;Wherefore in dungeon here I'm set,For fierce and froward Fool.”Here went there up a shout of glee.Cried Robin: “O sweet Fool,I would I had been there to seeThis haughty lord of high degreeIn pretty, plashing pool.”Here shout of glee became a roar,That made the dungeon ring;They laughed, they rolled upon the floor,Till suddenly the massy doorOn creaking hinge did swing;And to them the head jailer now appeared,A sombre man who sighed through tangled beard.
“How now, rogue-lads,” said he, “grow ye merry in sooth by reason o' this Fool! Aye me, all men do grow merry save only I, Ranulph, Chief Torturer, Ranulph o' the Keys, o' the Gibbet, o' the City Axe—poor Ranulph the Headsman. Good lack! I've cut off the head o' many a man merrier than I— aye, that have I, and more's the pity! And now, ye that are to die so soon can wax joyous along o' this motley Fool! Why, 't is a manifest good Fool, and rare singer o' songs, 't is said, though malapert, with no respect for his betters and over-quick at dagger-play. So 't is a Fool must die and sing no more, and there's the pity on't for I do love a song, I—being a companionable soul and jovial withal, aye, a very bawcock of a boy, I. To-morrow Red Gui doth hale ye to his Castle o' the Rock, there to die all five for his good pleasure, as is very fitting and proper, so be merry whiles ye may. Meantime, behold here another rogue, a youngling imp. So is five become six, and six may laugh louder than five, methinks, so laugh your best.”
Then Ranulph o' the Keys sighed, closed the great door and went his way, leaving the new captive to their mercies. Fair he was and slender, and of a timid seeming, for now he crouched against the wall, his face hid 'neath the hood of ragged mantle; wherefore the “saintly” three incontinent scowled upon him, roared at him and made a horrid clashing with their fetters:
“Ha, blood and bones!” cried Rick the Ploughman. “What murderous babe art thou to go unshackled in presence o' thy betters?”
“Aye, forsooth,” growled Will the Tanner, “who 'rt thou to come hither distressing the last hours o' we poor, perishing mortals? Discourse, lest I bite the heart o' thee!”
“Pronounce, imp!” roared Gurth the Dyer, “lest I tear thy liver!”
“Sit ye, here beside me, youth,” said Jocelyn, “and presently thou shalt know these tearers of livers and biters of hearts for lambs of innocence and doves of gentleness—by their own confessions. For, remark now, gentle boy, all we are prisoners and therefore guiltless of every offence—indeed, where is the prisoner, but who, according to himself, is not more sinned against than sinner, and where the convicted rogue but, with his tongue, shall disprove all men's testimony? So here sit three guileless men, spotless of soul and beyond all thought innocent of every sin soever. Yonder is Rob, a robber, and here sit I, a Fool.”
“Ha!” cried Rick. “Yet murderous Fool art thou and apt to dagger-play! Belike hast slain a man this day in way o' folly—ha?”
“Two!” answered Jocelyn, nodding. “These two had been more but that my dagger brake.”
Here was silence awhile what time Jocelyn hummed the line of a song and his companions eyed him with looks askance.
“Why then, good Folly,” said Rick at last, “'t is for a little spilling o' blood art here, a little, pretty business o' murder—ha?”
“'T is so they name it,” answered Jocelyn.
“Bones o' me!” growled Will, “I do begin to love this Fool.”
“And didst pronounce thyself our brother, Fool?” questioned Gurth.
“Aye, verily!”
“Then brethren let us be henceforth, and comrades to boot!” cried Rick. “Jolly Clerks o' Saint Nicholas to share and share alike—ha? So then 't is accorded. And now what o' yon lily-livered imp? 'T is a sickly youth and I love him not. But he hath a cloak, look'ee—a cloak forsooth and poor Rick's a-cold! Ho, lad—throw me thy cloak!”
“Beshrew me!” roared Gurth. “But he beareth belt and wallet! Ha, boy, give thy wallet and girdle—bestow!”
“And by sweet Saint Nick,” growled Will, “the dainty youngling disporteth himself to mine eyes in a gold finger-ring! Aha, boy! Give now thy trinket unto an honest tanner.”
Hereupon and with one accord up started the three, fierce-eyed; but Jocelyn, laughing, rose up also.
“Back, corpses!” quoth he, swinging the heavy fetters to and fro between shackled wrists. “Stand, good Masters Dry-bones; of what avail cloak, or wallet, or ring to ye that are dead men? Now, since corpses ye are insomuch as concerneth this world, be ye reasonable and kindly corpses. Sit ye then, Masters Dust-and-Ashes, and I will incontinent sing ye, chant or intone ye a little song of organs and graves and the gallows-tree whereon we must dance anon; as, hearken:
“Sing a song of corpses threeThat ere long shall dancing be,On the merry gallows-tree—High and low,To and fro,Leaping, skipping,Turning, tripping,Wriggling, whirling,Twisting, twirling:Sing hey for the gallows-tree.”
“Stint—stint thy beastly song now!” cried Will, pale of cheek. But Jocelyn sang the louder:
“Sing a song of dying groans,Sing a song of cries and moans,Sing a song of dead men's bones,That shall rest,All unblest,To rot and rot,Remembered not,For dogs to gnawAnd battle for,Sing hey for the dead rogue's bones.”
“Abate—ha—abate thy fiendish rant!” cried Rick, glancing fearfully over shoulder.
“Aye, Fool—beseech thee! Fair flesh may not abide it!” cried Gurth, shivering, while Robin grinned no more and the fearful youth leaned wide-eyed to behold the singer, this strange, scarred face beneath its battered cock's-comb, these joyous eyes, these smiling lips as Jocelyn continued:
“Now ends my song with ghosts forlorn,Three gibbering ghosts that mope and mourn,Then shrieking, flee at breath of dawn,Where creatures fellIn torment dwell,Blind things and foul,That creep and howl,That rend and biteAnd claw and fight.Where fires red-hotConsume them not,And they in anguishWrithe and languishAnd groan in painFor night again.Sing hey for pale ghosts forlorn.”
Now when the song was ended, the three looked dismally on one another and, bethinking them of their cruel end, they groaned and sighed lamentably:
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:
GILL: Father, I like that song, it's fine;But let me ask about this line:“Blind things and foul,That creep and howl.”Now tell me, please, if you don't mind,Why were the little horrors blind?MYSELF: The beastly things, as I surmise,Had scratched out one another's eyes.GILL:I suppose this place where creatures fellIn torments dwell is meant for—MYSELF:Well,I think, my Gill, the place you've guessed,So let me get on with our Geste.
... they groaned and sighed lamentably—
My daughter GILLIAN interjecteth:
GILL: Father—now don't get in a huff—But don't you think they've groaned enough?MYSELF: My Gillian—no! Leave well alone;This is the place for them to groan.Lamentably they did together moan,And uttered each full many a hollow groan.My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:GILL: But, father, groans are so distressing,And groans in verse are most depressing—MYSELF:Then peace, child, and in common proseI'll let the poor rogues vent their woes:
... they groaned and they sighed lamentably—
My daughter GILLIAN interrupteth:GILL: What, father, are they groaning still?MYSELF:Of course they are, and so they will,And so shall I; so, girl, take heed,And cease their groaning to impede.Is it agreed?GILL: Oh, yes, indeed!MYSELF: Then with our Geste I will proceed.
... they groaned and sighed lamentably.
“Alack!” cried Gurth, “I had not greatly minded till now, but this vile-tongued Fool hath stirred Fear to wakefulness within me. Here's me, scarce thirty turned, hale and hearty, yet must die woefully and with a maid as do love me grievously!”
“And me!” groaned Rick. “No more than twenty and five, I—a very lad—and with two maids as do languish for me fain and fond!”
“Ha, and what o' me?” mourned dismal, redheaded Will. “A lusty, proper fellow I be and wi' maids a score as do sigh continual. And me to die—O woe! And I a tanner!”
“Content ye, brothers!” said Jocelyn. “Look now, here's Gurth hath lived but thirty years, and now must die—good: so shall he die weighted with less of sin than had he lived thirty more. Be ye comforted in this, distressful rogues, the shorter our life the less we sin, the which is a fair, good thing. As for these shackles, though our bodies be 'prisoned our souls go free, thus, while we languish here, our souls astride a sunbeam may mount aloft, 'bove all pains and tribulations soever. Thus if we must dance together in noose, our souls, I say, escaping these fleshy bonds, shall wing away to freedom everlasting. Bethink ye of this, grievous knaves, and take heart. Regarding the which same truths I will, for thy greater comforting, incontinent make ye a song—hearken!
“Let Folly sing a song to cheerAll poor rogues that languish here,Doomed in dismal dungeon drear,Doomed in dungeon dim.“Though flesh full soon beneath the sodDoth perish and decay,Though cherished body is but clod,Yet in his soul man is a God,To do and live alway.So hence with gloom and banish fear,Come Mirth and Jollity,Since, though we pine in dungeon drear,Though these, our bodies, languish here,We in our minds go free.”
Thus cheerily sang Jocelyn until, chancing to see how the youth leaned forward great-eyed, watching as he sung, he broke off to question him blithely:
“How now, good youth, hast a leaning to Folly e'en though Folly go fettered, and thyself in dungeon?”
“Fool,” answered the youth, soft-voiced, “me-thinks 't is strange Folly can sing thus in chains! Hast thou no fear of death?”
“Why truly I love it no more than my fellow-fools. But I, being fool uncommon, am wise enough to know that Death, howsoe'er he come, may come but once—and there's a comfortable thought!”
So saying, Jocelyn seated himself beside the youth and watched him keen-eyed.
“And thou canst sing of Freedom, Fool, to the jangle of thy fetters?”
“Truly, youth, 't is but my baser part lieth shackled, thus while body pineth here, soul walketh i' the kindly sun—aye, e'en now as I do gaze on thee, I, in my thought, do stand in a fair garden—beside a lily-pool, where she I love cometh shy-footed to meet me, tall and gracious and sweet, as her flowers. A dream, belike, yet in this dream she looketh on me with eyes of love and love is on her lips and in her heart—so is my dream very precious.”
At this, the youth shrank beneath his cloak while in an adjacent corner the three rolled dice with Robin and quarrelled hoarse and loud.
“Youth,” said Jocelyn, “I pray thee, tell me thy name.”
Without lifting head the youth answered:
“Hugo!”
“Look up, Hugo!” But Hugo bowed his head the lower.
“Hast wondrous hair, Hugo—red gold 'neath thy hood!”
Here came a slim, white hand to order the rebellious tress but, finding none, trembled and hid itself. Then very suddenly Jocelyn leaned near and caught this hand, clasping it fast yet with fingers very gentle, and spake quick and eager:
“Hugo—alas, Hugo! What bringeth thee in this evil place? Art in danger? Speak, speak!”
“Nay, here is no harm for me, Joconde. And I am hither come for sake of a poor Fool that is braver than the bravest—one did jeopardise his foolish life for sake of a maid, wherefore I, Hugo, do give him life. Take now this wallet, within is good store of gold and better—a potent charm to close all watchful eyes. Hist, Joconde, and mark me well! Ranulph o' the Axe is a mighty drinker—to-night, drawn by fame of thy wit, he cometh with his fellows. This money shall buy them wine, in the wine cast this powder so shall they sleep and thou go free.”
“Aye!” said Jocelyn, “and then?”
“There will meet thee a dwarf shall free thee of thy fetters, and by secret ways set thee without the city—then, tarry not, but flee for thy life—”
“Now by the Holy Rood!” quoth Jocelyn softly, “never in all this world was there prisoner so happy as this poor Fool! But, Hugo, an I win free by reason of a brave and noble lady, so long as she bide in Canalise, so long must I—”
My daughter GILLIAN interposeth:GILL: O, father, now I understand—Of course, this Hugo is Yolande!MYSELF: Exactly, miss, the fact is clear;But how on earth did she get here?I don't want her here—GILL: Why not?MYSELF: Because, being here, she spoils my plot,Which would drive any author frantic—GILL: I think it's fine, and most romantic.Besides, you know, you wrote her there—MYSELF: She came—before I was aware—GILL: She couldn't, father, for just think,You've made her all of pen and ink.So you, of course, can make her doExactly as you want her to.MYSELF: Dear innocent! You little knowThe trials poor authors undergo.How heroines, when they break loose,Are apt to play the very deuce,Dragging their authors to and fro,And where he wills—they will not go.GILL: Well, since she's here, please let her be,She wants to set Duke Joc'lyn free.MYSELF: Enough—enough, my plans are made,I'll set him free without her aid,And in a manner, I apprise you,As will, I fancy, quite surprise you.Besides, a dungeon no fit place isFor a dainty lady's graces.So, since she's in, 't is very plainI now must get her out again.“To bide in Canalise, 't is folly!” cried Hugo. “O, 't were a madness fond!”
“Aye,” sighed Jocelyn, “some do call love a madness—thus mad am I, forsooth!”
“Hush!” whispered Hugo, as from without came the tramp of heavy feet. “Fare-thee-well and—ah, be not mad, Joconde!”
The door creaked open, and six soldiers entered bringing a prisoner, chained and fettered, and therewith fast bound and gagged, whom they set ungently upon the stone floor; then straightway seizing upon Robin, they haled him to his feet.
“Come, rogue,” said one, “thou art to hang at cockcrow!”
“Is't so, good fellows?” quoth Robin,