Thus it came to pass that early next morning a sentinel at Montfaucon hurried from his watch-tower to make report to Malemort, and Malemort lost no time in reporting to his chief. Peering from an upper window they could see a strong force under the banner of Count Thibaut, flanked by the devices of half Auvergne, coming at a sharp trot toward the castle. There was neither delay nor discussion. Garin de Biterres had not found life altogether pleasant, but he had no wish to end it with a rope around his neck. If some peasant had carried a report of his doings to Count Thibaut there was nothing to do but flee the vengeance now on the way, and that instantly. Without waiting even to close the gates the whole troop of mercenaries went galloping away. When the rescuers clattered into the courtyard they found no one stirring save a little stout man in a cook's apron, who was concocting something in a huge saucepan. “I am Martin,” he said to Savaric de Marsan. “I cook. But I do not cook for cannibals, and my faith! I think that robber captain will end by devouring his fellow-men. I have no mind to poison the food of his enemies, either, so when they went away I hid in the great tun. I am at your service, master.” Savaric was so much amused at the explanation that he then and there decided to rescue Martin from further evil company and place him in his own kitchen. “There is some consolation for not catching Biterres,” he observed to Ranulph later, “in getting a cook like that little man. He deserves something, truly, for giving you the information he did. And then, we are rid of Garin for good now. He will never come back to Auvergne. “You should have seen that Norman madman when your message came. He had us under arms and riding for dear life before we fairly understood what had happened. Yet from what Martin says, but for your daring and ready wit no message could have come. You will not allow me to say what I think of that, and therefore I suppose we must give all the credit to the victor in our tournament of the pigeons,--little Sieur Rien-du-Tout!” THE JESTERS Where through the dapple of wood-shadows dreaming Faun-footsteps pattering run, Where the swift mountain-brooks silvery-gleaming Carol through rain and through sun, Thee do we follow, O Spirit of Gladness,-- Thee to whom Laughter gave suck. We are thy people by night or by noontide,-- We are thy loves, O Puck! Lips thou hast kissed have no pleasure in sadness, Bitterness, cant nor disdain. Hearts to thy piping beat bravely in gladness Through poverty, exile or pain. Gold is denied us--thine image we fashion Out of the slag or the muck. We are thy people in court or by campfire,-- We are thy slaves, O Puck!