When they were close to the King, the man-at-arms plucked
a torch from its socket and held it to his own face. The King
staggered back with a cry, as he gazed at that grim visage.
"Le diable noir!" he cried. "Simon, the Englishman! What make
you here?"
Simon put his hand upon his shoulder. "Sit here!" said he, and he
forced the King into his seat. "Do you sit on the farther side of
him, Aylward. We make a merry group, do we not? Often have I
served at this table, but never did I hope to drink at it. Fill
your cup, Samkin, and pass the flagon."
The King looked from one to the other with terror in his bloodshot
eyes. "What would you do?" he asked. "Are you mad, that you
should come here. One shout and you are at my mercy."
"Nay, my friend, I have lived too long in your house not to know
the ways of it. No man-servant ever slept beneath your roof, for
you feared lest your throat would be cut in the night-time. You
may shout and shout, if it so please you. It chanced that I was
passing on my way from England in those ships which lie off La
Brechou, and I thought I would come in and have speech with you."
"Indeed, Simon, I am right glad to see you," said the King,
cringing away from the fierce eyes of the soldier. "We were good
friends in the past, were we not, and I cannot call to mind that I
have ever done you injury.
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