The appeal was taken up and tossed about, until a chorus of voices were demanding it.
"Show us a miracle, Messer Fulke! A miracle such as you showed the people of Paris! Give us a miracle!"
The priest raised his gaunt arms in a magnificent gesture of command. Instantly the crowd sobered into silence.
"A miracle ye call for!" he said slowly, his words falling distinct as the tolling of a bell. "Oh, ye foolish ones, ye of little faith! A miracle ye must have in order that ye shall believe!"
His tones became scornful.
"When did Fulke of Neuilly ever claim to be a worker of miracles? But I will show you that which is all but a miracle, an ye ask for it. I will show ye the haughty and highly-placed brought to serve God's purpose against their will. Look carefully, oh, people!"
There was a deadly hush, and Fulke leaned forward from his heap of faggots.
"Ride near, sir knights," he called to Hugh and Matteo. "Ay, to my feet, an it please you."
By magic a lane opened before their horses, there was a pressure of bodies from the rear, and the comrades found themselves immediately under the preacher's stand.
"I thought I knew ye, slayers of outlaws, players of light music, doers of errant deeds," he exclaimed sarcastically. "Here I give you a chance to redeem your souls from the burden of sin that rests upon them."