“Sir,” he said, “be welcome. I am John Skelton.” He drew himself up proudly. “Johannes Skelton, Artium Magister, Laurea Ornatus. Were I free to leave this place--but my Lord the Cardinal takes care of that, so tender is he lest ill hap come to me--I could show you the cloak of white and green, the King’s colors, with the laurel wreath embroidered on the shoulder and the word ‘Calliope’ in cunning device within the wreath--here, on this spot”--he touched his left shoulder--“where are now the keys that are my safety--the keys of this Abbey.” “And wherefore, Sir John,” asked the visitor, “art thou in Sanctuary?” “Come with me, and we will talk.” So John Skelton led the way to a house of better appearance than most. It stood beside the Gate House, which was also the Abbot’s prison. Over against it was the group of buildings called the Almonry, and from the windows there was a pleasant view across the gardens and the orchards of the Abbey. “Come in, sir,” said the poet. “Let us sit down and talk. Truly I have much to say. A man cannot discourse with the rabble of the Sanctuary. My patron, the Abbot, is oppressed with cares of state; the monks, the good monks, the holy men,”--he smiled, he chuckled, he broke into a laugh,--“they have little learning outside the Psalms which they intone so well, and for poetry they have no love, or they might sing mine.” He began to troll out, with a voice that had once been lusty: “Ye holy caterpillars, Ye helpe your well willers With prayers and psalmes, To devour the almes That Christians should give, To meynteyne and releve The people poore and needy; But youe be greedy, And so grete a number The world ye encumber. By Saynt Luke and _secundum Skeltonida_,” he concluded, with another laugh. “Sir, let us drink before we go on.” Whereupon he went out, and presently returned carrying a black jack which held three quarts or so, and singing: “I care right nowghte, I take no thowte For clothes to keep me warme. Have I good dryncke, I surely thyncke Nothing can do me harm. For truly than I fear no man, Be he never so bolde, When I am armed And throwly warmed With joly good ale and olde.” So he lifted the black jack to his lips, took a long draught, and handed it to his companion. ’Twas right October, strong and mellow.