“Go, then, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane, “neglect not this opportunity. Your presence without may encourage friends to our rescue—your remaining here would ruin us all.”
“And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from without?” said Cedric, looking to the Jester.
“Prospect, indeed!” echoed Wamba; “let me tell you, when you fill my cloak, you are wrapped in a general’s cassock. Five hundred men are there without, and I was this morning one of the chief leaders. My fool’s cap was a casque, and my bauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see what good they will make by exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I fear they will lose in valour what they may gain in discretion. And so farewell, master, and be kind to poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let my cockscomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood, in memory that I flung away my life for my master, like a faithful—-fool.”
The last word came out with a sort of double expression, betwixt jest and earnest. The tears stood in Cedric’s eyes.
“Thy memory shall be preserved,” he said, “while fidelity and affection have honour upon earth! But that I trust I shall find the means of saving Rowena, and thee, Athelstane, and thee, also, my poor Wamba, thou shouldst not overbear me in this matter.”
The exchange of dress was now accomplished, when a sudden doubt struck Cedric.
“I know no language,” he said, “but my own, and a few words of their mincing Norman. How shall I bear myself like a reverend brother?”
“The spell lies in two words,” replied Wamba—“‘Pax vobiscum’ will answer all queries. If you go or come, eat or drink, bless or ban, ‘Pax vobiscum’ carries you through it all. It is as useful to a friar as a broomstick to a witch, or a wand to a conjurer. Speak it but thus, in a deep grave tone,—‘Pax vobiscum!’—it is irresistible—Watch and ward, knight and squire, foot and horse, it acts as a charm upon them all. I think, if they bring me out to be hanged to-morrow, as is much to be doubted they may, I will try its weight upon the finisher of the sentence.”
“If such prove the case,” said the master, “my religious orders are soon taken—‘Pax vobiscum’. I trust I shall remember the pass-word.—Noble Athelstane, farewell; and farewell, my poor boy, whose heart might make amends for a weaker head—I will save you, or return and die with you. The royal blood of our Saxon kings shall not be spilt while mine beats in my veins; nor shall one hair fall from the head of the kind knave who risked himself for his master, if Cedric’s peril can prevent it.—Farewell.”
“Farewell, noble Cedric,” said Athelstane; “remember it is the true part of a friar to accept refreshment, if you are offered any.”