“Dead, however, he was, or else translated,” said the younger peasant; “for I heard the Monks of Saint Edmund’s singing the death’s hymn for him; and, moreover, there was a rich death-meal and dole at the Castle of Coningsburgh, as right was; and thither had I gone, but for Mabel Parkins, who⁠—”

“Ay, dead was Athelstane,” said the old man, shaking his head, “and the more pity it was, for the old Saxon blood⁠—”

“But, your story, my masters⁠—your story,” said the Minstrel, somewhat impatiently.

“Ay, ay⁠—construe us the story,” said a burly Friar, who stood beside them, leaning on a pole that exhibited an appearance between a pilgrim’s staff and a quarterstaff, and probably acted as either when occasion served⁠—“Your story,” said the stalwart churchman; “burn not daylight about it⁠—we have short time to spare.”

“An please your reverence,” said Dennet, “a drunken priest came to visit the Sacristan at Saint Edmund’s⁠—”