“And some,” said Wamba, “have been wise enough to reward themselves; they do not march off empty-handed altogether. We do not all wear motley.”

“They are welcome,” said Locksley; “our laws bind none but ourselves.”

“But, thou, my poor knave,” said Cedric, turning about and embracing his Jester, “how shall I reward thee, who feared not to give thy body to chains and death instead of mine!⁠—All forsook me, when the poor fool was faithful!”

A tear stood in the eye of the rough Thane as he spoke⁠—a mark of feeling which even the death of Athelstane had not extracted; but there was something in the half-instinctive attachment of his clown, that waked his nature more keenly than even grief itself.

“Nay,” said the Jester, extricating himself from master’s caress, “if you pay my service with the water of your eye, the Jester must weep for company, and then what becomes of his vocation?⁠—But, uncle, if you would indeed pleasure me, I pray you to pardon my playfellow Gurth, who stole a week from your service to bestow it on your son.”