"Ah, yes; I had forgotten," said Olger. "Yet I ought to know well enough, for a kinsman of mine is governor there." And he named the man whom he believed to be the governor.
"You are strangely in error," said the horseman, "though I remember now to have heard there was a ruler of that name two hundred years ago. He was a great writer of romances, and I daresay you know, since you claim him as your ancestor, that he wrote the romance of Olger the Dane. A good story enough, though, of course, no one believes it now, save perhaps one man, who often sings it about the city, and picks up money from the passers-by." Then he fell back a few paces, and riding beside Benoist, said to him: "Who is your master?"
"Surely you must know him," said the squire; "he is Olger the Dane."
"Rascal!" cried the stranger, "you are making a jest of me. All men know that Olger the Dane perished in shipwreck two hundred years ago. That is a fine story indeed!" And he rode away.
The knight and his squire pursued their journey till they came to the market-place of Meaux, where they stopped at the door of an inn well known to them in former days.
"Can we lodge here?" asked Olger.
"Certainly you can," replied the innkeeper.
"Then fetch the landlord to speak with me."
"Sir," said the man, "I am the landlord."
"Nay, nay," said Olger; "I wish to see Hubert the Neapolitan, the landlord of this house."