“Not a [v]doit I,” answered poor Wamba, “and for hanging up by the feet, my brain has been topsy-turvy ever since the [v]biggin was bound first around my head; so turning me upside down may peradventure restore it again.”
“Hah!” cried Front-de-Boeuf, “what have we here?”
And with the back of his hand he struck Cedric’s cap from the head of the jester, and throwing open his collar, discovered the fatal badge of servitude, the silver collar round his neck.
“Giles—Clement—dogs and varlets!” called the furious Norman, “what villain have you brought me here?”
“I think I can tell you,” said De Bracy, who just entered the apartment. “This is Cedric’s clown.”
“Go,” ordered Front-de-Boeuf; “fetch me the right Cedric hither, and I pardon your error for once—the rather that you but mistook a fool for a Saxon [v]franklin.”
“Ay, but,” said Wamba, “your chivalrous excellency will find there are more fools than franklins among us.”
“What means this knave?” said Front-de-Boeuf, looking toward his followers, who, lingering and loath, faltered forth their belief that if this were not Cedric who was there in presence, they knew not what was become of him.
“Heavens!” exclaimed De Bracy. “He must have escaped in the monk’s garments!”
“Fiends!” echoed Front-de-Boeuf. “It was then the boar of Rotherwood whom I ushered to the postern and dismissed with my own hands! And thou,” he said to Wamba, “whose folly could over-reach the wisdom of idiots yet more gross than thyself. I will give thee holy orders, I will shave thy crown for thee! Here, let them tear the scalp from his head and pitch him headlong from the battlements. Thy trade is to jest: canst thou jest now?”