‘The minstrel held his fiddle and bow ready to play. He closed his eyes and swayed a little to and fro; the riot of colour and noise faded from his eyes and ears, it grew very silent. He felt himself alone on a far hillside; a small, still rain fell out of the clouds and murmured upon multitudinous leaves; a rainbow spanned the heavens and its misty radiance was reflected in watery meadows far away. Blue smoke went slowly up from the chimney of his mother’s cottage. Then the songs of his own country came to his heart and filled his eyes with tears. His fingers lovingly sought the keyboard, one moment he paused, then drew the bow over the strings. ‘A discordant shriek stridently echoed through the hushed hall: they had greased his bow. ‘A roar of laughter went up from the benches. He opened his eyes in agonized bewilderment and gazed uncomprehendingly at his fiddle. ‘“A right minstrel indeed,” shouted the guests. ‘“An ass to bray thus,” cried some. ‘“A beast to beard us thus,” cried others; and yet again, “Pelt him, pelt him!” ‘Some spat at him, some slung the wine from their goblets at him, others pelted him with broken piecrust and gobbets of custard and jelly and cake, and with apples and pears and nuts. Half-dazed he stood stock-still awhile, until at length an apple struck him full on the forehead and nearly brought him to the ground. The men guffawed till they cried and the women screamed with delight. ‘“Again, again,” they shrieked. “Bring the little devil down,” “Break his skull,” “Knock his eye out,” “A crown that I break his fiddle,” “Under the ear this time.” The lady at the dais drew a dagger from her girdle and, leaning over the table, aimed it with all her force at the minstrel. She snarled like a cat when she saw she had missed her aim. The noise of Hell went up from the hall. ‘With a sudden cry, the minstrel, clasping his fiddle and bow to his side, turned like a hunted hare, and, before any of the drunken feasters could stagger to their feet to stay him, had rushed through the hall and out at the great door. Lo, the Lord held this innocent in the hollow of His hand, for as he sped across the courtyard and drawbridge there was none to let him. Down the forest path he went, and down and down and down, leaping the great roots of oak and beech, bursting through the tall bracken, diving through the tangled undergrowth, falling headlong down the dry watercourses and gullies, and down and down and down until he came to the still water. Then up and up and up over the broad meadows, and up and up and up the hillside, with never a moment’s stay for breath, never a moment’s looking backward, up, up to Vill Beaumont cowering in the hollow of the ridge. At the top of the hill he ran full tilt into a group of villeins. They stood gazing toward the Castle, their countenances smitten with amazement and horror. They crossed themselves devoutly and uttered many a broken prayer.