al-wist where lay his fortune
When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,"

and amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round Hugh, and one
round the old pilgrim of Netherfield.

'"Here is your knight, Brother," said he, "and for the better disport of
the company, here is my fool. Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza
are clean carried away!"

'Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to my side; the old man
blinked upon the company.

'We looked at the King, but he smiled.

'"Rahere promised he would show me some sport after supper to cover his
morning's offence," said he to De Aquila. "So this is thy man, Rahere?"

'"Even so," said Rahere. "My man he has been, and my protection he has
taken, ever since I found him under the gallows at Stamford Bridge
telling the kites atop of it that he was--Harold of England!"

'There was a great silence upon these last strange words, and Hugh hid
his face on my shoulder, woman-fashion.

'"It is most cruel true," he whispered to me. "The old man proved it to
me at the beat after you left, and again in our hut even now. It is
Harold, my King!"

'De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the man and swallowed.

'"Bones of the Saints!" said he, staring.

'"Many a stray shot goes too well home," said Rahere.

'The old man flinched as at an arrow. "Why do you hurt me still?" he
said in Saxon. "It was on some bones of some Saints that I promised I
would give my England to the Great Duke." He turns on us all crying,
shrilly: "Thanes, he had caught me at Rouen--a lifetime ago. If I had
not promised, I should have lain there all my life. What else could I
have done? I have lain in a strait prison all my life none the less.
There is no need to throw stones at me." He guarded his face with his
arms, and shivered.

'"Now his madness will strike him down," said Rahere. "Cast out the evil
spirit, one of you new bishops."

'Said William of Exeter: "Harold was slain at Santlache fight. All the
world knows it."

'"I think this man must have forgotten," said Rahere. "Be comforted,
Father. Thou wast well slain at Hastings forty years gone, less three
months and nine days. Tell the King."

'The man uncovered his face. "I thought they would stone me," he said.
"I did not know I spoke before a King." He came to his full towering
height--no mean man, but frail beyond belief.

'The King turned to the tables, and held him out his own cup of wine.
The old man drank,