The Count sprang to the door, and tried to force it open, but to no purpose. "Jules! Jules!" roared he. "What ho there! Treachery!" But the only response he received to his frantic cries was the fragment of a rollicking song and chorus, trolled more lustily than musically by rough voices in the distant kitchen, the substance of which ran something like the following:—
"Old Bacchus was a merry dog,
And kept good company;
He loved good wine and a jovial song,
So his days sped merrily.
Chorus.—Ho, comrades all, we'll drink and sing,
So pass the bowl along.
If a better cask the morrow bring,
We'll greet it with a song."
"What ho there, you drunken brutes! What ho, Jules!" shouted the Count, frantic with rage. But again the response was in a similar strain:—
"We're freemen all, but have our liege,
For William is our lord;
We've wine and ale and venison
To crown our festive board.
Chorus.—Ho, comrades, all," etc.
"What ho there!" roared the Count, more lustily than ever, and furiously beating the door with an oaken footstool. But all in vain, the song ran its course oblivious of all beside, and with, if possible, an increase in its roystering loudness:—
"No foemen can our arms withstand,
The Saxons are our scorn.
We'll drink and laugh, and sing at eve,
And chase them in the morn.
Chorus.—Ho, comrades all," etc.