"And most vile sinner, lord. Howbeit I have dared supplicate on thy behalf and behold! thou art indeed thyself again—that same sweet and gentle youth that smote me on my knavish mazzard with thy stout quarter-staff in Shevening Thicket in the matter of Beda, Red Pertolepe's fool—a dour ding, yon, master—forsooth, a woundy rap!"
Now fell they to thoughtful silence again, but oft Black Roger's stride waxed uneven, and oft he stumbled in his going, wherefore Beltane slackened his pace.
"What is it, Roger?"
"Naught but my legs, master. Heed 'em not."
"Thy legs?"
"They be shorter than thine, lord, and love not to wag so fast. An thou could'st abate thy speed a little—a very little, master, they shall thank thee dearly."
"Art so weary, Roger?"
"Master, I was afoot ere sunrise."
"Why truly, Roger. Yet do I, to mine own selfish ends, keep thee from thy slumber thus. Verily a selfish man, I!"
"Not so, master, indeed—"