hing to pluck at Rahere's cape. "I am
Rahere's man. None stone me now," and he played with the bells on the
scollops of it.

'"How if he had been brought to me when you found him?" said the King to
Rahere.

'"You would have held him prisoner again--as the Great Duke did," Rahere
answered.

'"True," said our King. "He is nothing except his name. Yet that name
might have been used by stronger men to trouble my England. Yes. I must
have made him my life's guest--as I shall make Robert."

'"I knew it," said Rahere. "But while this man wandered mad by the
wayside, none cared what he called himself."

'"I learned to cease talking before the stones flew," says the old man,
and Hugh groaned.

'"Ye have heard!" said Rahere. "Witless, landless, nameless, and, but
for my protection, masterless, he can still make shift to bide his doom
under the open sky."

'"Then wherefore didst thou bring him here for a mock and a shame?"
cried Hugh, beside himself with woe.

'"A right mock and a just shame!" said William of Exeter.

'"Not to me," said Nigel of Ely. "I see and I tremble, but I neither
mock nor judge."

'"Well spoken, Ely." Rahere falls into the pure fool again. "I'll pray
for thee when I turn monk. Thou hast given thy blessing on a war between
two most Christian brothers." He meant the war forward 'twixt Henry and
Robert of Normandy. "I charge you, Brother," he says, wheeling on the
King, "dost thou mock my fool?"

'The King shook his head, and so then did smooth William of Exeter.

'"De Aquila, dost thou mock him?" Rahere jingled from one to another,
and the old man smiled.

'"By the Bones of the Saints, not I," said our Lord of Pevensey. "I know
how dooms near he broke us at Santlache."

'"Sir Hugh, you are excused the question. But you, valiant, loyal,
honourable, and devout barons, Lords of Man's Justice in your own
bounds, do _you_ mock my fool?"

'He shook his bauble in the very faces of those two barons whose names I
have forgotten. "Na--Na!" they said, and waved him back foolishly
enough.

'He hies him across to staring, nodding Harold, and speaks from behind
his chair.

'"No man mocks thee. Who here judges this man? Henry of
England--Nigel--De Aquila! On your souls, swift with the answer!" he
cried.

'None answered. We were all--the King not least--overborne by that
terrible scarlet and black wizard-jester.

'"Well for your souls," he said, wiping his brow. Next, shrill like a
woman: "Oh, come