"
"Do you jest?" came the angry question.
"Jest? Had you caught his villainous sandal between your shoulders, as
did I, you would know how little I have a mind to jest."
"Now answer me a plain question, if you have the wit to answer with,"
quoth the other, anger ever rising in his voice. "Is there hereabouts a
monk?"
"Aye, is there--may a foul plague rot him!--lurking in the bushes yonder.
He is over-fat to run, or you had seen him at my heels, arrayed in that
panoply of avenging wrath that is the cognisance of the Church Militant."
"Go bring him hither," was the short answer.
"Ges?!" gasped the fool, in very real affright. "I'll not go near him
till his anger cools--not if you made me straight and bribed me with the
Patrimony of St. Peter."
The man turned from him impatiently, and rising his voice:
"Fanfulla!" he called over his shoulder, and then, after a moment's
pause, again: "Ol?, Fanfulla!"
"I am here, my lord," came an answering voice from behind a clump of
bushes on their right, and almost immediately the very splendid youth who
had gone to sleep in its shadow stood up and came round to them. At
sight of the fool he paused to take stock of him, what time the fool
returned the compliment with wonder-stricken interest. For however much
Fanfulla's raiment might have suffered in yesternight's affray, it was
very gorgeous still, and in the velvet cap upon his head a string of
jewels was entwined. Yet not so much by the richness of his trappings
was the fool impressed, as by the fact that one so manifestly noble
should address by such a title, and in a tone of so much deference, this
indifferently apparelled fellow over whom he had stumbled.
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