‘“I think Rahere is jealous of you,” said he, smiling, to Nigel of Ely. He was one bishop; and William of Exeter, the other--Wal-wist the Saxons called him--laughed long. “Rahere is a priest at heart. Shall I make him a bishop, De Aquila?” says the King. ‘“There might be worse,” said our Lord of Pevensey. “Rahere would never do what Anselm has done.” ‘This Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, had gone off raging to the Pope at Rome, because Henry would make bishops without his leave either. I knew not the rights of it, but De Aquila did, and the King laughed. ‘“Anselm means no harm. He should have been a monk, not a bishop,” said the King. “I’ll never quarrel with Anselm or his Pope till they quarrel with my England. If we can keep the King’s peace till my son comes to rule, no man will lightly quarrel with our England.” ‘“Amen,” said De Aquila. “But the King’s peace ends when the King dies.” ‘That is true. The King’s peace dies with the King. The custom then is that all laws are outlaw, and men do what they will till the new King is chosen. ‘“I will amend that,” said the King hotly. “I will have it so that though King, son, and grandson were all slain in one day, still the King’s peace should hold over all England! What is a man that his mere death must upheave a people? We must have the Law.” ‘“Truth,” said William of Exeter; but that he would have said to any word of the King. ‘The two great barons behind said nothing. This teaching was clean against their stomachs, for when the King’s peace ends, the great barons go to war and increase their lands. At that instant we heard Rahere’s voice returning, in a scurril Saxon rhyme against William of Exeter: ‘“Well wist Wal-wist where lay his fortune When that he fawned on the King for his crozier,” and amid our laughter he burst in, with one arm round Hugh, and one round the old pilgrim of Netherfield. ‘“Here is your knight, Brother,” said he, “and for the better disport of the company, here is my fool. Hold up, Saxon Samson, the gates of Gaza are clean carried away!” ‘Hugh broke loose, white and sick, and staggered to my side; the old man blinked upon the company. ‘We looked at the King, but he smiled. ‘“Rahere promised he would show me some sport after supper to cover his morning’s offence,” said he to De Aquila. “So this is thy man, Rahere?” ‘“Even so,” said Rahere. “My man he has been, and my protection he has taken, ever since I found him under the gallows at Stamford Bridge telling the kites atop of it that he was--Harold of England!” ‘There was a great silence upon these last strange words, and Hugh hid his face on my shoulder, woman-fashion. ‘“It is most cruel true,” he whispered to me. “The old man proved it to me at the beat after you left, and again in our hut even now. It is Harold, my King!” ‘De Aquila crept forward. He walked about the man and swallowed. ‘“Bones of the Saints!” said he, staring. ‘“Many a stray shot goes too well home,” said Rahere.