“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?”

“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!”

“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!”

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?”

“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:

“Stint—stint thy beastly song now!” cried Will, pale of cheek. But Jocelyn sang the louder:

“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 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:

... they groaned and sighed lamentably—

My daughter GILLIAN interjecteth:

... they groaned and they sighed lamentably—

... 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!

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—”

“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,

As for thee, good Motley, peradventure when, by hangman's noose, our souls enfranchised go, they shall company together, thine and mine! Till then —farewell, Folly!”

So Robin was led forth of the dungeon and the heavy door crashed shut; but when Jocelyn looked for Hugo—lo! he was gone also.

Evening was come and the light began to fail, therefore Jocelyn crouched beneath the narrow loophole and taking from his bosom the wallet, found therein good store of money together with the charm or philtre: and bowing his head above this little wallet, he fell to profound meditation.

But presently, roused by hoarse laughter, he glanced up to find the three plaguing the helpless prisoner with sundry kicks and buffets; so Jocelyn crossed the dungeon, and putting the tormentors aside, stood amazed to behold in this latest captive none other than Sir Pertinax. Straightway he loosed off the gag, whereupon the good knight incontinent swore a gasping oath and prayed his limbs might be loosed also; the which done, he forthwith sprang up, and falling on the astonished three, he beat and clouted them with fist and manacles, and drave them to and fro about the dungeon.

“Ha, dogs! Wilt spurn me with they vile feet, buffet me with thy beastly hands, forsooth!” roared he and kicked and cuffed them so that they, thinking him mad, cried aloud in fear until Sir Pertinax, growing a-weary, seated himself against the wall, and folding his arms, scowled indignant upon Jocelyn who greeted him merrily:

“Hail and greeting to thee, my Pertinax; thy gloomy visage is a joy!”

Sir Pertinax snorted, but spake not; wherefore the Duke questioned him full blithe: “What fair, good wind hath blown thee dungeon-wards, sweet soul?”

“Ha!” quoth the knight. “Fetters, see'st thou, a dungeon, and these foul knaves for company—the which cometh of thy fool's folly, messire! So prithee ha' done with it!”

“Stay, gentle gossip, thou'rt foolish, methinks; thou frettest 'gainst fate, thou kickest unwisely 'gainst the pricks, thou ragest pitifully 'gainst circumstance—in fine, thou'rt a very Pertinax, my Pertinax!”

“Aye troth, that am I and no dog to lie thus chained in noisome pit, par Dex! So let us out, messire, and that incontinent!”

“Why here is a bright thought, sweet lad, let us out forthwith—but how?”

“Summon the town-reeve, messire, the burgesses, the council, declare thy rank, so shall we go free—none shall dare hold thus a prince of thy exalted state and potent might! Declare thyself, lord.”

“This were simple matter, Pertinax, but shall they believe us other than we seem, think ye?”

Quoth Pertinax: “We can try!”

“Verily,” said Jocelyn, “this very moment!” So saying, he turned to the three who sat in a corner muttering together.

“Good brothers, gentle rogues,” said he, “behold and regard well this sturdy cut-throat fellow that sitteth beside me, big of body, unseemly of habit, fierce and unlovely of look—one to yield the wall unto, see ye! And yet—now heed me well, this fellow, ragged and unkempt, this ill-looking haunter of bye-ways, this furtive snatcher of purses (hold thy peace, Pertinax!). I say this unsavoury-seeming clapper-claw is yet neither one nor other, but a goodly knight, famous in battle, joust and tourney, a potent lord of noble heritage, known to the world as Sir Pertinax of Shene Castle and divers rich manors and demesnes. Furthermore, I that do seem a sorry jesting-fellow, I that in antic habit go, that cut ye capers with ass's ears a-dangle and languish here your fellow in bonds, am yet no antic, no poor, motley Fool, but a duke and lord of many fair towns and rich cities beyond Morfeville and the Southward March. How say ye, brothers?”

“That thou'rt a fool!” quoth Rick.

“True!” nodded Jocelyn.

“Most true!” sighed Sir Pertinax.

“And a liar!” growled Gurth.

“And a murderous rogue!” cried Will, “and shall hang, along of us—as I'm a tanner!”

“Alack, Sir Knight,” smiled Jocelyn, “of what avail rank or fame or both 'gainst a motley habit and a ragged mantle. Thus, Pertinax, thou art no more than what thou seemest, to wit—a poor, fierce rogue, and I, a beggarly stroller.”

“And like to have our necks stretched, lord, by reason of a fond and foolish whim!”

“Unless, Pertinax, having naught to depend on but our native wit we, by our wit, win free. Other poor rogues in like case have broke prison ere now, and 'tis pity and shame in us if thou, a knight so potent and high-born, and I, a prince, may not do the like.”

“Messire, unlearned am I in the breaking o' prisons so when my time cometh to die in a noose I can but die as knight should—though I had rather 't were in honest fight.”

“Spoken like the very fool of a knight!” quoth Jocelyn. “So now will I show thee how by the wit of a brave and noble lady we may yet 'scape the hangman. Hearken in thine ear!”

But, when Jocelyn had told him all and shown money and sleeping-charm, Sir Pertinax grew thoughtful, sighing deep and oft, yet speaking not, wherefore the Duke questioned him.

“Good gossip, gasp not!” quoth he. “How think'st thou of prison-breaking now—expound!”

“Nay, Pertinax, here shall be no need of choking, forsooth!” Sir Pertinax bowed chin on fist and sighed again.

“Pertinax, prithee puff not! Yet, an puff ye will, pronounce me then the why and wherefore of thy puffing.”

“Lord, here is neither gasp nor puff, here is honest sighing. I can sigh as well as another.”

“Since when hast learned this so tender art, my Pertinax?”

“And I do sigh by reason of memory.”

“As what, Pertinax?”

“Eyes, lord—her eyes so darkly bright and, as I do think—black!”

“Nay, blue, Pertinax—blue as heaven!”

“Black, messire, black as—as black!”

“Blue, boy, blue!”

“Lord, they are black!”

“Speak'st thou of Yolande?”

“Messire, of one I speak, but whom, I know not. She came to me i' the greenwood as I sat a-fishing. Her hair long and black—ay, black and curled, her eyes dark, and for beauty ne'er saw I her like.”

“And yet hast seen my Lady Yolande oft!”

“Her voice, messire, her voice soft and sweet as the murmur of waters, and very full of allure.”

“Why, how now!” cried Jocelyn. “Art thou—thou, my Pertinax, become at last one of Cupid's humble following? All joy to thee, my lovely lover—here in truth is added bond betwixt us! For since thou dost love a maid, even as I do love a maid, so being lovers twain needs must we love each other the better therefore.”

“Nay, out alack, my lord!” sighed Sir Pertinax. “For though I do love her, she, by reason o' my ill-favoured looks, the which, woe's me, I may not alter, loveth not me, as I do judge.”

“How judge ye this?”

“Lord, she giveth me hard names. She, all in a breath, hath pictured me thus: 'Hooked of nose, fierce-eyed, of aspect grim—ungentle, unlovely, harsh o' tongue, dour o' visage, hard o' heart, flinty o' soul and of manners rude.'”

“Good! But was this all, my Pertinax?”

“Nay, lord, and with a wannion—there was more to like purpose.”

“Excellent, my lovely knight—let hope sing in thee. For look now, if she named thee hooked of nose, fierce-eyed and of aspect grim—she speaketh very truth, for so thou art, my Pertinax. Now truth is a fair virtue in man or maid, so is she both virtuous and fair! Nay, puff not, sighful Pertinax, but for thy comforting mark this—she hath viewed and heeded thy outward man narrowly—so shall she not forget thee soon; she with woman's eye hath marked the great heart of thee through sorry habit and rusty mail, and found therein the love thy harsh tongue might not utter; and thus, methinks, she hath thee in mind—aye, even now, mayhap. Lastly, good, lovely blunderbore—mark this! 'Tis better to win a maid's anger than she should heed thee none at all. Let love carol i' thy heart and be ye worthy, so, when ye shall meet again, 'tis like enough, despite thy hooked nose, she shall find thine eyes gentle, thy unloveliness lovely, thy harsh tongue wondrous tender and thy flinty soul the soul of a man.”

“Why, faith, lord,” quoth Pertinax, his grim lips softening to a smile, “despite her words, she spake in voice full sweet, and her eyes—ah, messire, her eyes were wondrous kind—gentle eyes—aye, her eyes were—”

“Eyes, my Pertinax—black eyes!”

“And gentle! By which same token, lord, she did give to me this token—this most strange trinket.”

But all at once, was the creak of hinges, and the ponderous door opening, Ranulph o' the Axe appeared, followed by divers of the warders bearing torches.

“Oho!” sighed Ranulph, doleful of visage. “Aha, good bawcocks, here come I, and these my fellows, for love o' thee, good Fool, thy quips, thy quirks, thy songs and antics capersome. For troth I'm a merry dog, I—a wanton wag, a bully boy and jovial, though woeful o' look!”

“Wherefore woeful!”

“For that I am not joyous, good Motley. Look 'ee—here's me born with a rare, merry heart, but sad and sober of head! Here's a heart bubbling with kindliness and soft and tender as sucking lamb, wedded to head and face full o' gloom! Here's laughter within me and woe without me, so am I ever at odds with myself—and there's my sorrow. Regarding the which same I will now chaunt ye song I made on myself; 'twas meant for merry song and blithe, but of itself turned mournful song anon as ye shall hear.”

So saying, Ranulph o' the Axe threw back grim head and sang gruff, albeit plaintive, thus:

“So there's my song! 'T is dull song and, striving to be merry song, is sad song, yet might be worse song, for I have heard a worse song, ere now—but 't is poor song. So come, Fool, do thou sing us merry song to cheer us 'gainst my sad song.”

“Why truly, Sir Headsman,” said Jocelyn, “here be songs a-many, yet if thou 'rt for songs, songs will we sing thee, each and every of us. But first, behold here is money shall buy us wine in plenty that we may grow merry withal in very sooth.”

“Oho!” cried Ranulph. “Spoken like a noble Motley, a fair, sweet Fool! Go thou, Bertram, obey this lord-like Fool—bring wine, good wine and much, and haste thee, for night draweth on and at cock-crow I must away.”

“Aye,” nodded Jocelyn, “in the matter of one—Robin?”

“Verily, Fool. A cheery soul is Robin, though an outlaw, and well beloved in Canalise. So is he to hang at cock-crow lest folk make disturbance.”

“Where lieth he now?”

“Where but in the watch-house beside the gallows 'neath Black Lewin's charge. But come, good Motley, sing—a pretty song, a merry ditty, ha!”

So forthwith Jocelyn took his lute and sang:

“Enough, Fool!” cried Will. “An thou must sing, sing of thyself, for thyself, to thyself, and I will sing of myself an' need be!”

Laughed JOCELYN:

Whereupon Will cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and rumbling a note or so to fix the key, burst into songful roar:

“Aye, verily!” growled Sir Pertinax. “And choked in thy vile tan-pit, for scurvier song was never heard, par Dex!”

“Why 'tis heard, forsooth,” said Jocelyn, “and might be heard a mile hence! Chant on, brave Will.”

The Tanner, nothing loth, wiped his mouth, clenched his fists and standing square and rigid, continued:

“Now out upon thee, Tanner!” sighed Ranulph. “Here's sad song, a song o' graves, and therefore most unlovely, a song I—Saints and Angels!” he gasped:

“Beshrew me, masters all!” quoth he. “Now here's ill prank to play a poor hangman, may I ne'er quaff good liquor more, let me languish o' the quartern ague and die o' the doleful dumps if I ever saw the like o' this! For look 'ee now, if I set these three rogues free, how may I hang 'em as hang 'em I must, since I by hanging live to hang again, and if I don't hang 'em whom shall I hang since hang I must, I being hangman? Bethink ye o' this, sirs, and show a little pity to a poor hangman.”

“Why then, mark ye this, hangman,” said Jocelyn, “since on hanging doth thy hangman's reputation hang, then hang thou must; therefore, an ye lack rogue to hang, go hang thyself, so, hanging, shall thy hanging be done with and thou having lived a hangman, hangman die, thus, hangman hanging hangman, hangman hanging shall be hangman still, and being still, thus hanging, shall hang no more.”

“Aye, verily!” quoth Sir Pertinax, “there it is in a nutshell—hangman, be hanged to thee! So off with their fetters, Master Gallows, by Crystal Heart I charge thee!”

Hereupon the scurvy knaves were freed, to their great joy, and following the bold knight, made haste to quit their gloomy dungeon. Reaching the guardroom above, Sir Pertinax called lustily for sword and bascinet, and thereafter chose divers likely weapons for his companions who, with axe and pike and guisarme on shoulder, followed him out into the free air.

Now it was night and very dark, but Gurth, who was a man of the town, brought them by dim and lonely alleys and crooked ways until at last they halted within a certain dark and narrow street.

“Whither now?” questioned Sir Pertinax.

“Verily,” said Jocelyn, “where but to the gatehouse—”

“Not so,” muttered Gurth, “'tis overly well guarded—”

“Aye,” growled Will, “which is true, as I'm a tanner!”

“Howbeit,” said Jocelyn, “I'm for the gatehouse!”

“And wherefore?” demanded Sir Pertinax.

“In cause of one Rob, a robber.”

“Aye, but,” said Gurth, “he is to hang at crow-o'-cock and 'tis nigh cock-crow now.”

“The more need for haste,” said Jocelyn.

My daughter GILLIAN remonstrateth:

“O woe!” said a quavering voice. “Alack, and well-a-wey—”

My daughter GILLIAN demurreth:

At this, Jocelyn sat up and wondered to find himself in a small chamber dim-lit by a smoking cresset. On one side of him leaned an ancient woman, a very hag-like dame

and upon his other side a young damsel of a wondrous dark beauty.

“Lady,” said he, “where am I?”

“Hush, poor Motley!” whispered the maid. “Thou didst fall 'gainst the door yonder. But speak low, they that seek thy life may yet be nigh.”

“Nay, then,” quoth Jocelyn, reaching for his sword, “I must out and aid my comrades.”

“Alack!” sighed the old woman. “Thy comrades do without lie all slain save one that groaneth—hearken!”

“O, woe!” mourned a quavering voice beyond the door. “O, woe, sore hurted I be, and like to die—and I a tanner!”

Very heedfully, Jocelyn unbarred the door, and peering into the narrow street, found it deserted and empty save for certain outstretched forms that stirred not; looking down on these dim shapes he knew one for Rick the Ploughman, whose ploughing days were sped and, huddled in a corner hard by, he found Will the Tanner, who groaned fitfully; but of Sir Pertinax and Gurth he saw nothing. So Jocelyn made shift to bear the Tanner within the house, and here Will, finding his hurts of small account, sat up, and while the wise old woman bandaged his wound, answered Jocelyn's eager questions, and told how Sir Pertinax and Gurth the Dyer had broken through their assailants and made good their escape.

Now, when the old woman had thus cherished their hurts, Jocelyn would fain have given her money, but she mumbled and mowed and cracked her finger-joints and shook grey head.

“Not so, good Fool!” she croaked, “for I do know thee for that same gentle Motley did save me from Black Lewin—a murrain seize him! So now will I save thee—behold!” So saying she set bony hand to wall; and lo! in the wall yawned a square opening narrow and dark, whence issued a cold wind. “Begone, thou brave merryman!” quoth she. “Yonder safety lieth; this darksome way shall carry thee out beneath the city wall!”

“Gramercy, thou kindly Witch!” said Jocelyn. “Yet first must I to the watch-house beside the gate for one Robin that lieth 'prisoned there.”

“How, Fool, dost mean Robin-a-Green that is to hang?”

“In truth!”

“But Rob o' the Green is outlawed, banned o' Church, a very rogue!”

“But a man, wherefore I would save him alive.”

“Nay, Fool, o' thy folly be wise and seek ye safety instead. Would'st peril thy body for a thief?”

“Verily, dame, even as I did for a Witch.”

Now, here the old woman scowled and mumbled and cracked her finger-bones angrily. But the beauteous young maid viewed Jocelyn with bright, approving eyes:

“But, Fool,” cried she, “O wondrous Fool, wilt adventure thyself in cause so desperate?”

“Blithely, fair lady!”

“But, alas! the guards be many and thou but one—”

“Nay!” cried a voice:

And forth of the dark opening in the wall strode Lobkyn Lollo the Dwarf, his great, spiked club on brawny shoulder. Jocelyn viewed the monstrous little man in awed wonder; but beholding his mighty girth and determined aspect, wonder changed to kindliness; quoth he:

“Fair greeting, comrade! If thou'rt for a little bickering and disputation with that goodly club o' thine, come thy ways for methinks I do smell the dawn.”

“Aha, thou naughty little one!” cried the Witch, shaking bony fist. “Art for fighting for rogue's life along of a Fool, then?”

Quoth LOBKYN:

“And talking o' Will,” quoth Will, “what o' me, for though I'm a tanner I'm a man, aye, verily, as I'm a tanner.”

“And methinks a better man than tanner!” said Jocelyn. “So here we stand three goodly wights and well armed. Let's away—”

“Nay, then, wild Madcap,” croaked the Witch, “an my Lobkyn go I go, and, though I be old and feeble, shalt find my craft more potent than sword or club—wait!”

Here the old woman, opening a dingy cupboard, took thence a small crock over which she muttered spells and incantations with look and gesture so evil that Lobkyn eyed her askance, Will the Tanner cowered and whispered fragments of prayers, and even Jocelyn crossed himself.

“Come!” croaked the Witch. “Now do I go to save rogue from gallows for sake of thee, tall Fool. Come ye, come and do as I bid ye in all things—come!”