Happily one of the halberdiers screamed:
“Master Isnard,—climb a tree,—quick, quick, before the bull gets back.”
The corpulent recorder followed the halberdier’s counsel, and throwing himself upon the trunk of a sycamore, he held on with knees, feet, and hands, making unheard-of efforts in his clumsy ascent.
The baron and his guests, seeing that the man was no longer in real danger, again began their jests and laughter. The clerk, more nimble than the recorder, was now safely seated in the top of a sycamore.
“Master Bruin has come at last! Take care, beware!” cried Raimond, laughing till the tears came in his eyes at the efforts of the recorder, who was trying to straddle one of the largest branches of the tree he had climbed with so much difficulty.
“If the recorder looks like an old bear climbing his pole,” said another, “the clerk looks like an old, shivering monkey,—see his jaws chatter.”
“Come, come, clerk, get to your task; where is your pen and your ink, and your register? You are safe, now,—scribble your scrawl,” cried the old lord of Signerol.
“Attention, attention, the tournament has begun!” cried one of the guests. “It is Nicolin against a halberdier.”
“Largess, largess for Nicolin!”
Seeing the two men of the law safe from their horns, the bulls had turned upon the halberdiers.