‘“Here’s a heavy heart for a joyous meal!” he says. “But each man must have his black hour or where would be the merit of laughing? Take a fool’s advice, and sit it out with my man. I’ll make a jest to excuse you to the King if he remember to ask for you. That’s more than I would do for Archbishop Anselm.” ‘Hugh looked at him heavy-eyed. “Rahere?” said he. “The King’s jester? Oh, Saints, what punishment for my King!” and smites his hands together. ‘“Go--go fight it out in the dark,” says Rahere, “and thy Saxon Saints reward thee for thy pity to my fool.” He pushed him from the pavilion, and Hugh lurched away like one drunk.’ ‘But why?’ said Una. ‘I don’t understand.’ ‘Ah, why indeed? Live you long enough, maiden, and you shall know the meaning of many whys.’ Sir Richard smiled. ‘I wondered too, but it was my duty to wait on the King at the High Table in all that glitter and stir. ‘He spoke me his thanks for the sport I had helped show him, and he had learned from De Aquila enough of my folk and my castle in Normandy to graciously feign that he knew and had loved my brother there. (This, also, is part of a king’s work.) Many great men sat at the High Table--chosen by the King for their wits, not for their birth. I have forgotten their names, and their faces I only saw that one night. But’--Sir Richard turned in his stride--‘but Rahere, flaming in black and scarlet among our guests, the hollow of his dark cheek flushed with wine--long, laughing Rahere, and the stricken sadness of his face when he was not twisting it about--Rahere I shall never forget. ‘At the King’s outgoing De Aquila bade me follow him, with his great bishops and two great barons, to the little pavilion. We had devised jugglers and dances for the Court’s sport; but Henry loved to talk gravely to grave men, and De Aquila had told him of my travels to the world’s end. We had a fire of apple-wood, sweet as incense,--and the curtains at the door being looped up, we could hear the music and see the lights shining on mail and dresses. ‘Rahere lay behind the King’s chair. The questions he darted forth at me were as shrewd as the flames. I was telling of our fight with the apes, as ye called them, at the world’s end. [See ‘The Knights of the Joyous Venture’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] ‘“But where is the Saxon knight that went with you?” said Henry. “He must confirm these miracles.” ‘“He is busy,” said Rahere, “confirming a new miracle.” ‘“Enough miracles for today,” said the King. “Rahere, you have saved your long neck. Fetch the Saxon knight.” ‘“Pest on it,” said Rahere. “Who would be a King’s jester? I’ll bring him, Brother, if you’ll see that none of your home-brewed bishops taste my wine while I am away.” So he jingled forth between the men-at-arms at the door. ‘Henry had made many bishops in England without the Pope’s leave. I know not the rights of the matter, but only Rahere dared jest about it. We waited on the King’s next word.