Ogier unbuckled his sword and flung it with a crash upon a wooden settle. He was hot and out of temper. Drawing a stool to the table, he began to eat like a hungry wolf.
“Fall to, my son,” he said, flourishing a pot in his right hand; “we shall be on guard all night. Come, keep up your courage.”
Tristan joined him. They ate in silence, listening to the vague and unhallowed sounds that echoed now and again through this habitation of the mad. Tristan was debating with himself as to what had become of Jocelyn the Bishop.
As they sat at meat, the sound of a melody played by a rebec and flute quivered down from the upper room. A thrill of laughter stirred in the air; streaks of yellow light poured betwixt the hinges and under the planking of the door. The music increased, as though some blithe company descended to a feast; while within, a man’s gruff voice broke forth into a song. The crabbed and grizzled ferryman came in from the court, and sat down on a stool before the fire.
Tristan leant over the table, laid a hand upon Ogier’s wrist.
“Are yonder folk mad—also?”
The giant grinned and held up a pot.
“Mad, my son, most mad,” he said; “when the wine flows, you will hear them cackling.”
A woman’s voice rose in discord to the music, a wild and abandoned scream of inarticulate laughter. Half a dozen tongues seemed to gather in a chorus. The laughter died down, rose again into a squeal of mirth.
“The Bishop and Black Benedict enjoy themselves,” said Ogier, licking his lips.