"Nothing, my lord," said the jongleur in deep amazement.
"Listen, jongleur. What do you hear now?" said he.
"My lord, I can hear nothing," answered the little man.
"I have drunken too deep," said the Baron; "surely I am most devilishly drunk, for I can hear, I can hear"—he leant in the manner of a man listening—"I can hear now as I speak to you, voices as of a great company of men praying to Our Lady—listen! their voices are praying deeply. I think they must be monks."
"Lord, look you to this," whispered the serf, terror-stricken.
The dog, perhaps because he felt the three men were going in fear, or perhaps from some deeper and more hidden reason which men do not yet understand, crouched low on the ground and hid his head between his paws, whining.
"They are praying to the Blessed Virgin," said Geoffroi. "Can you hear nothing—those deep voices?"
"My lord," said the jongleur with more confidence, "the night is late, and I have known many sounds appear like human voices in the night. A cow loweth or a beetle boometh in the orchard flowers."
"What it may be I do not know," answered he, "but I know that it is no ox a-lowing or fly upon the wing. I am not mocked. There is something wrong with the night."
"The more reason, Sir Geoffroi, that I should divert you with tales and jests. These fearful nights of strange lights in the sky and noises from the fen lands need some light business to fill the mind. To bed, my lord!"