Just at this point (though many of the listeners knew the song as well as the minstrel himself) the growing laughter swelled into a full-mouthed, side-shaking roar that made the air ring. As it died away, a big spearman called out to the singer—
“Stand to it, Ralph! Here comes one of these French minstrels to have a bout with thee. At him boldly, for the honour of Old England!”
Into the circle of light cast by the fire came a thin, small, rather flighty-looking man in minstrel garb, with a lute slung at his back, beside whom stalked a huge form, a full head and shoulders taller, with a shaggy black beard, and clothes so tattered and grimed as to suggest a charcoal-burner’s shirt.
“What ho, friends! who are ye? The Wandering Jew and his brother, with the dust of ages on your clothes?” cried a big archer, winking to his comrades to watch how he would “chaff” the new-comers.
“Thou hast guessed it, good sir,” said the smaller man in French, with an impish grin; “we are, indeed, the Wandering Jew and his brother, who——Ha! what see I? that face—those eyes——Brother, brother! our weary penance is ended at last!”
And, throwing his arms round the bantering archer’s neck, he uttered a series of joyful howls worthy of a scalded cat.
“How now? what means this?” sputtered the astounded archer, struggling in vain to free himself from his new friend’s embrace, while the rest gathered round, laughing loudly both at the heavy, ox-like bewilderment of the assailed man, and the monkeyish grimaces of the assailant.
“It was foretold to me a thousand years ago,” cried the latter, rapturously, “that my weary wanderings should end, whenever I could find a greater fool than myself, and, the saints be praised, I have found him!”
This retort (which most of them knew French enough to understand) was received with a louder roar than ever, these thorough John Bulls being ever ready to enjoy a good hard hit, whether in words or blows; and they hastened to throw themselves between the rash joker and their aggrieved comrade, who, clenching a fist like a shoulder of mutton, seemed about to avenge himself on the spot.
“Nay, nay, Sim—fair play, lad! The first blow was thine, and he hath but hit thee back. See’st thou not he is a jester? and such are ever privileged men. And who art thou, friend?” said the speaker to the jester’s tall comrade. “Art thou come to join our ranks? Speak out if thou be a true man, though in truth thou look’st more like a thief!”