He drew out the last notes into one of those querulous cadences, much in vogue as an _ad libitum_ on all fitting occasions: even the sad features of the pilgrim were provoked into a smile. "Art bound for the hall?" again inquired the inquisitive hunchback. "Yes, friend--whither else? Is it not almous-day, and thinkest thou the houseless and wandering pilgrim will not share of the largess?" "Beggars and friars thrive--treason and corruption wed, and these be their children belike. Hast brought the Lady Mabel her old husband's bones from heathenrie?--her new one is like to leave her nought else, poor soul, for her comfort. She'll make her up a saint out o'them." "If she has gotten another husband," said the pilgrim, "the old one's bones would have a rare chance of her worship." The facetious impertinent here gave a sort of incredulous whistle. He eyed the palmer with a keen and scrutinising glance, but suddenly relapsing into his accustomed manner, he burst into a wild and portentous laugh. "I tell thee, if Sir Osmund catch thee carrying so much as a thumb-nail of Sir William's carcase, he 'll wring thy neck as wry as the chapel weathercock. My lady goes nigh crazed with his ill humours. I warrant thee, Sir William's ghost gaily snuffs up the sport. I have watched him up and down the old stairs, and once i' the chapel; and he told me"--whispering close to the pilgrim's ear--"a great secret, nuncle!" "Ay--what was that, Motley?" "Why, said he, if so be Sir William comes home again, he'll find his wife has got a cuckoo in her nest." Here he burst from the stranger with a malicious shout, and descending a by-path, was soon lost amidst the intricacies of a deep wood, skirting the verge of an extensive forest.