‘The sewer led the minstrel before the dais and left him trembling there before the Lord. The Lord of Beaumont was as huge as an ox, and held his two fists clenched on the table before him as though he were an angered. His broad bearded face was like a fire, and his fierce bloodshot eyes rolled evilly round the hall. But as for his leman, not Helen nor Guinivere, long since dead, but ever famous for excellent beauty, could well compare with her, so wanton, so white, so debonair. I ween she was well fitted to draw the hearts of all men unto her. Folk who had gazed on her might say “I have seen the fairest of created flesh.” ‘“What, thou starveling,” cried the Lord, “art thou come hither to make us merry; methought thou wert a skeleton from the graveyard, walking at noonday.” ‘Then he called to his musicians, who sat with their trumpets, nakers, and cymbals in their hands, smiling disdainfully, “Look, ye knaves, here is a fellow come to teach you your trade. He can many a merry note and jolly stave, he can many a wanton song and sly ballad. God’s foot, I see it in his cunning eye, though to look at his lean ribs a man might not think it.” ‘The guests in the hall laughed loudly at their Lord’s mirth. ‘“If he cannot make good mirth,” quoth the lady in a hard cruel voice, “it were best he were whipped till the blood come, for his lantern chaps and staring eyes. Ugh, my gorge rises to look on the fellow; he looks worse than a spitted lark and smells of death.” ‘One of the musicians rose from his place beside the dais and went and whispered in the Lord’s ear. The Lord laughed hoarsely. “God’s fist,” he said, “’tis a good jest, let it be done.” ‘Whereupon the musician approached the minstrel. ‘“Good Master Minstrel,” quoth he with cunning pleasantry, “what rare instrument hast thou in thy hands? Blessed Virgin, ’tis no wonder thou claspest it so closely to thy bosom. And what an excellent piece of work is thy bow! Verily I believe they must have been Apollo’s, the god of music’s. Prithee let me and my poor fellows behold it more closely.” ‘The minstrel did not answer, but held his fiddle the more tightly to him, shrinking away. ‘“Nay, for courtesy’s sake,” said the musician. ‘“God’s eyes, thou wert best, thou scarecrow,” thundered the Lord from the dais. ‘In great dread the minstrel released his hold upon the fiddle; his hands fell awkwardly by his sides; he gazed foolishly at the floor. The musician took the instrument and the bow and passed them round among his fellows. Many were the mocking commendations they made upon it, but at the last they returned it to him with satirical compliments and courtesy. ‘“Play,” cried the Lord,--“Play, for thy hide’s sake, minstrel,” and he thumped the board again.