‘“Who answers for him?” said I. “If he fails in his duty, who will pay his fine?”
‘“Who will pay my fine?” the pilgrim said. “I have asked that of all the Saints in England these forty years, less three months and nine days! They have not answered!” When he lifted his thin face I saw he was one-eyed, and frail as a rushlight.
‘“Nay but, Father,” I said, “to whom hast thou commended thyself?” He shook his head, so I spoke in Saxon: “Whose man art thou?”
‘“I think I have a writing from Rahere, the King’s Jester,” said he after a while. “I am, as I suppose, Rahere’s man.”
‘He pulled a writing from his scrip, and Hugh coming up, read it.
‘It set out that the pilgrim was Rahere’s man, and that Rahere was the King’s Jester. There was Latin writ at the back.
‘“What a plague conjuration’s here?” said Hugh, turning it over. “Pum-quum-sum oc-occ. Magic?”
‘“Black Magic,” said the Clerk of Netherfield (he had been a monk at Battle). “They say Rahere is more of a priest than a fool and more of a wizard than either. Here’s Rahere’s name writ, and there’s Rahere’s red cockscomb sign drawn below for such as cannot read.” He looked slyly at me.
‘“Then read it,” said I, “and show thy learning.” He was a vain little man, and he gave it us after much mouthing.
‘“The charm, which I think is from Virgilius the Sorcerer, says: ‘When thou art once dead, and Minos (which is a heathen judge) has doomed thee, neither cunning, nor speechcraft, nor good works will restore thee!’ A terrible thing! It denies any mercy to a man’s soul!”