-for such was in fact his vocation--"I wonder
for what property master keeps a fool?--I bethink me 'tis for his wit:
more wit and less honesty, though." The palmer was silent.

"Art going to the hall?" continued he. "The fool is whipt there for
being honest. Have a care, nuncle; if Sir Osmund catch thee, thou hadst
as good bequeath thy bones to the Pope to make into saint's gear.--I'm
very sad, nuncle!"

"Sad!" said the pilgrim; "in good troth, an' thou be sad, the cock of
the hall yonder is but in sorry plight."

"'Tis more wholesome to cry to-day," said the dolorous knave, "knowing
ye shall laugh to-morrow, than to laugh to-day, and to-morrow's dool
somehow making your mirth asthmatic:

"Be merry to-morrow; to-day, to-day,
Your belly-full fill of grief;
When sorrow hath supp'd, go play, go play,
For mirth I wot is brief.

"Ay, grandam, ye are wise; and an old woman's wit best becomes a fool:

"When sorrow hath supp'd, go play, go play,
For mirth I wot is brief."

He drew out the last notes into one of those querulous cadences, much in
vogue as an _ad libitum_ on all fitting occasions: even the sad features
of the pilgrim were provoked into a smile.

"Art bound for the hall?" again inquired the inquisitive hunchback.

"Yes, friend--whither else? Is it not almous-day, and thinkest thou the
houseless and wandering pilgrim will not share of the largess?"

"Beggars and friars thrive--treason and corruption wed, and these be
their children belike. Hast brought the Lady Mabel her old husband's
bones from heathenrie?--her new one is like to leave her nought else,
poor soul, for her comfort. She'll make her up a saint out o'them."

"If she has gotten another husband," said the pilgrim, "the old one's
bones would have a rare chance of her worship."

The facetious impertinent here gave a sort of incredulous whistle. He
eyed the palmer with a keen and scrutinising glance, but suddenly
relapsing into his accustomed manner, he burst into a wild and
portentous laugh.

"I tell thee, if Sir Osmund catch thee carrying so much as a thumb-nail
of Sir William's carcase, he 'll wring thy neck as wry as the chapel
weathercock. My lady goes nigh crazed with his ill humours. I warrant
thee, Sir William's ghost gaily snuffs up the sport. I have watched him
up and down the old stairs, and once i' the chapel; and he told
me"--whispering close to the pilgrim's ear--"a great secret, nuncle!"

"Ay--wh