The peasants were bending their bows. Bills, pikes, scythes, and clubs waved in the air. Their shouts were like the cries of wild beasts.
Fulk drove the spurs into his horse and rode forward.
“Sirs, what would you? Listen to me—your King.”
They faltered and stood still, staring upon him, their bows half bent, their weapons wavering.
Out before them all leapt a fanatic figure, a figure in a brown smock and green hood, a figure that tossed its arms and foamed at the mouth. It was Merlin, inarticulate for the moment, smothered by his own frenzy.
“A lie, a lie! Hear, men of the fields!”
A second figure sprang forward, waving a red kerchief. It was Isoult.
Fulk saw the crest of the wave about to break on him and his company. Merlin’s mouth was a red circle, open to shout the truth. Then a closed hand swept up and round, and opened its fingers within a foot of its face. Never had simpler stuff served more nobly. Merlin’s mouth and eyes were full of red pepper.
He choked, ground his knuckles into his eyes, tried to speak, but was bent double with anguish.
Isoult stood forward, laughing, and waving her kerchief.