He was now in his gayest mood, and holding a horn in his hand, trolled forth an old French ditty, seeming confident of pleasing, or perhaps careless whether he pleased or not.
“Thou’rt an ass, Robin, thou’rt an ass,
To think that great men be
More gay than I that lie on the grass
Under the greenwood tree.
I tell thee no, I tell thee no,
The Great are slaves to their gilded show.
Now tell me, Robin, tell me,
Are the ceilings of gay saloons
So richly wrought as yon sky we see,
Or their glitter so bright as the moon’s?
I tell thee no, I tell thee no,
The Great are slaves to their gilded show.
Say not nay, Robin, say not nay!
There is never a heart so free,
In the vest of gold, and the palace gay,
As in buff ‘neath the forest tree.
I tell thee yea, I tell thee yea,
The Great were made for the poor man’s prey.”
So sang the owner of the buff jerkin, and his song met with more or less applause from his companions, according to the particular humour of each. One only amongst the freebooters seemed scarcely to participate in the merriment. He had drunk as deeply as the rest, but he appeared neither gay, nor stupid, nor sleepy; and while the tall Norman sang, he cast, from time to time, a calm sneering glance upon the singer, which showed no especial love, either for the music, or musician.
“You sing about prey,” said he, as the other concluded the last stanza of his ditty—“You sing about prey, and yet you are no great falcon, after all; if we may judge from to-day.”
“And why not, Monsieur Pierrepont Le Blanc?” demanded the Norman, without displaying aught of ill-humour in his countenance: “though they ought to have called you Monsieur Le Noir—Mr. Black, not Mr. White.—Nay, do not frown, good comrade; I speak but of your beard, not of your heart. What, art thou still grumbling, because we did not cut the young Count’s throat outright?”
“Nay, not for that,” answered the other, “but because we have lost the best man amongst us, for want of his being well seconded.”
“You lie, Parbleu!” cried the Norman, drawing his sword, and fixing his thumb upon a stain, about three inches from the point. “Did not I lend the youth so much of my iron toothpick? and would have sent it through him, if his horse had not carried him away. But I know you, Master Buccaneer—You would have had me stab him behind, while Mortagne slashed his head before. That would have been a fit task for a Norman gentleman, and a soldier! I whose life he saved too!”
“Did you not swear, when you joined our troop,” demanded the other, “to forget every thing that went before?”