"Certainly he will, in a day or two. You may be sure that he has friends in Norwich, and an expedition does not start without a clatter and talk all along the country-side. I would wager you a wager, Sir Anselm, that Geoffroi will hear of it by to-morrow morn." "And then?" "Why then to making ready, to get provision and vitaille for the siege." "Well, I wait it in patience: I never moil and fret. He who waiteth, all things reach at the last." "Beware of too much patience, Sir Anselm. Mind you the fable of Chiche Vache, the monstrous cow, who fed entirely on patient men and women, and, the tale went, was sorely lean on that fare? "'Gardez vous de la shicheface, El vous mordra s'el vous encontre.'" The Jew gave out the song with a fine trill in his voice, which was as tuneful as a bell. The priest, as he watched him and marked his handsome, intelligent face, was filled with wonder of him. There was nothing he could not do well, so ran his thoughts, and an air of accomplishment and ease was attendant upon all his movements. As he threw back his head, drinking in the evening air, and humming his catch--"el vous mordra s'el vous encontre"--Anselm was suddenly filled with fear of him. He seemed not quite to fit into life. He was a Jew, too, and his forefathers had scourged God Incarnate. Strange things were said about the Jews--art magic helped them in their work. The priest clutched the cross by his side, and there was a wonderful comfort in the mere physical contact with it. "No," said he, "I have never heard of Chiche Vache that I can call to mind. I do not care much for fables and fairy tales. There is merry reading in the lives of Saints, and good for the soul withal." "The loss is yours, priest. I love the stories and tales of the common folk, eke the songs they sing to the children. I can learn much from them. Chiche Vache is as common to the English as to French folk. 'Lest Chichewache yow swelwe in hir entraille,'" he drawled in a capital imitation of the uncouth Saxon speech. By that time they had got to the castle and turned in at its gates. The courtyard was full with a press of people, and busy as a hive. Outside the stable doors the horses were being rubbed down by the serfs. As they splashed the cool water over the quivering fetlocks and hot legs, all scratched by thorns and forest growth, they crooned a little song in unison. The "ballad of my lord going hawking" was a melancholy cadence, which seemed, in its slow minors, instinct with the sadness of a conquered race. The first verse ran-- "Lord his wyfe upstood and kyssed, Faucon peregryn on wryst; Faucon she of fremde londe, With hir beek Sir Heyrown fonde." Lewin and Anselm passed by them and stood watching a moment. "Hear you that song of the grooms?" Lewin said. "I have heard it a hundred times, but never listened till now," said Anselm. "But what say they of Faucon peregryn? what means fremde londe?"