Presently he felt a hand on his shoulder, and started, “Lost in a stud, as we say at home, boy,” said the jester, resplendent in a bran new motley suit. “Wilt come in to the banquet? ’Tis open house, and I can find thee a seat without disclosing the kinship that sits so sore on thy brother. Where is he?” “I have not seen him this day.” “That did I,” returned Randall, “as I rode by on mine ass. He was ruffling it so lustily that I could not but give him a wink, the which my gentleman could by no means stomach! Poor lad! Yet there be times, Ambrose, when I feel in sooth that mine office is the only honourable one, since who besides can speak truth? I love my lord; he is a kind, open-handed master, and there’s none I would so willingly serve, whether by jest or earnest, but what is he but that which I oft call him in joke—the greater fool than I, selling peace and ease, truth and hope, this life and the next, for yonder scarlet hat, which is after all of no more worth than this jingling head-gear of mine.” “Deafening the spiritual ears far more, it may be,” said Ambrose, “since _humiles exallaverint_.” It was no small shock that there, in the midst of the nave, the answer was a bound, like a ball, almost as high as the capital of the column by which they stood. “There’s exaltation!” said Randall in a low voice, and Ambrose perceived that some strangers were in sight. “Come, seek thy brother out, boy, and bring him to the banquet. I’ll speak a word to Peter Porter, and he’ll let you in. There’ll be plenty of fooling all the afternoon, before my namesake King Hal, who can afford to be an honester man in his fooling than any about him, and whose laugh at a hearty jest is goodly to hear.” Ambrose thanked him and undertook the quest. They parted at the great west door of the Abbey, where, by way of vindicating his own character for buffoonery, Randall exclaimed, “Where be mine ass?” and not seeing the animal, immediately declared, “There he is!” and at the same time sprang upon the back and shoulders of a gaping and astonished clown who was gazing at the rear of the procession. The crowd applauded with shouts of coarse laughter, but a man, who seemed to belong to the victim, broke in with an angry oath, and “How now, sir?” “I cry you mercy,” quoth the jester; “’twas mine own ass I sought, and if I have fallen on thine, I will but ride him to York House and then restore him. So ho! good jackass,” crossing his ankles on the poor fellow’s chest so that he could not be shaken off. The comrade lifted a cudgel, but there was a general cry of “My Lord Cardinal’s jester, lay not a finger on him!” But Harry Randall was not one to brook immunity on the score of his master’s greatness. In another second he was on his feet, had wrested the staff from the hands of his astounded beast of burden, flourished it round his head after the most approved manner of Shirley champions at Lyndhurst fair, and called to his adversary to “come on.”