Then the old man advanced, he who had protested against the occupation of the chair, and said—"I am ready to die, whether in my bed or on the gibbet matters little to me. God grant that I be the man taken. My time at best is but short. Another year to me matters not a hair."
He walked to the bassinet, without hesitation drew his lot, carried it to the Norman—who stood in the sun-ray—and unclosed his withered hand. In it was an unmarked stick.
"Pass forth," said Rogier.
"Nay," said the old man. "My son comes after me—let him draw."
A tall, well-built man walked boldly to the cap, drew, and approached the sunbeam.
"Open!" ordered Rogier.
He held a marked stick.
"On one side—food for the crows," said the Norman.
Then the old man fell on his knees. "I beseech you take me and spare him. He has a young wife and a child. He has life before him, mine is all behind."
"Away," ordered Rogier. "The lot decides—the judgment is with heaven, not with me."