"Music? Who called for music?" a foreign voice demanded: and now in the doorway appeared three newcomers, two men and a woman—the same three of whom the apprentice had caught a glimpse within the room at the stairs' foot. The spokesman, a heavily built fellow with a short bull-neck and small cunning eyes, carried a drum slung about his shoulders and beat a rub-a-dub on it by way of flourish. "Take thy tambourine and dance, Julitta—
Julie, prends ton tambourin;
Toi, prends ta flute, Robin,"
he hummed, tapping his drum again.
"So? So? What foreign gabble is this?" demanded John Shakespeare, following and laying a hand on his shoulder.
"A pretty little carol for Christmas, Signore, that we picked up on our way through Burgundy, where they sing it to a jargon I cannot emulate. But the tune is as it likes you—
Au son ces instruments—
Turelurelu, patapatapan—
Nous dirons Noël gaîment!
Goes it not trippingly, Signore? You will say so when you see my Julitta dance to it."
"Eh—eh? Dance to a carol?" a woman protested. "'Tis inviting the earth to open and swallow us."