Two people only remained by the steer, an aged man, almost blind, who tended the fire, and the girl Joan, whom Guillem slept to forget.

“The seigneur has ridden out of the gates, father,” she said.  The colour mounted to her dark cheeks.  She was tall and slender, unlike the peasant girls of the town, almost noble in her bearing; a rare flower that Charles, in his rage and disappointment, would pick for himself.

“And were you not undutiful,” he mumbled, “you would be with him now, and looking down on this rabble.”

She did not reply at once.  Her eyes were fixed on the frowning castle, on the grim double line of men-at-arms, at the massive horse and its massive rider.

“I, too, should be up there,” whined the old man.  “Today, instead of delivering Christmas dues, I should be receiving them.  But you—!” He swung on her malevolently, “You must turn great ox-eyes toward Guillem, whose most courageous work is to levy tribute of a dungeon!”

She flushed.

“I am afraid, father.  He is a hard man.”

“He is gentle with women.”

“Gentle!” Her eyes were still upraised.  “He knows not the word.  When he looks at me there is no liking in his eyes.  I am—­frightened.”

The overlord sat his great horse and surveyed the plain below.  As far as he could see, and as far again in every direction, was his domain, paying him tithe of fat cattle and heaping granaries.  As far as he could see and as far again was the domain that, lacking a man-child, would go to Philip, his cousin.

The Bishop, who rode his donkey without a saddle, slipped off and stood beside the little beast on the road.  His finger absently traced the dark cross on its back.

“Idiots!” snarled the overlord out of his distemper, as he looked down into the faces of his faithful ones below.  “Fools and sons of fools!  Thy beast would suit them better, Bishop, than mine.”

Then he flung himself insolently out of the saddle.  There was little of Christmas in his heart, God knows; only hate and disappointment and thwarted pride.

“A great day, my lord,” said the Bishop.  “Peace over the land.  The end of a plentiful year—­”

“Bah!”

“The end of a plentiful year,” repeated the Bishop tranquilly, “this day of His birth, a day for thanksgiving and for—­good-will.”

“Bah!” said the overlord again, and struck the grey a heavy blow.  So massive was the beast, so terrific the pace at which it charged down the hill that the villagers scattered.  He watched them with his lip curling.

“See,” he said, “brave men and true!  Watch, father, how they rally to the charge!” And when the creature was caught, and a swaying figure clung to the bridle: 

“By the cross, the Fool has him!  A fine heritage for my cousin Philip, a village with its bravest man a simpleton!”

The Fool held on swinging.  His arms were very strong, and as is the way with fools and those that drown, many things went through his mind.  The horse was his.  He would go adventuring along the winter roads, adventuring and singing.  The townspeople gathered about him with sheepish praise.  From a dolt he had become a hero.  Many have taken the same step in the same space of moments, the line being but a line and easy to cross.