A large crowd now poured indiscriminately out of the chapel and amongst it Nicholas perceived many of his friends and neighbours, Mr. Townley of Townley Park, Mr. Parker of Browsholme, Mr. Shuttleworth of Gawthorpe, Sir Thomas Metcalfe, and Roger Nowell.  With the latter was Master Potts, and Richard was then at no loss to understand against whom Sir Ralph had warned him.  A fierce light blazed in Roger Nowell’s keen eyes as he first remarked the two Asshetons, and a smile of gratified vengeance played about his lips; but he quelled the fire in a moment, and, compressing his hard mouth more closely, bowed coldly and ceremoniously to them.  Metcalfe did the same.  Not so Master Potts.  Halting for a moment, he said, with a spiteful look, “Look to yourself, Master Nicholas; and you too, Master Richard.  A day of reckoning is coming for both of you.”

And with this he sprang nimbly after his client.

“What means the fellow?” cried Nicholas.  “But that we are here, as it were, in the precincts of a palace, I would after him and cudgel him soundly for his insolence.”

“And wha’s that ye’d be after dinging, man?” cried a sharp voice behind him.  “No that puir feckless body that has jist skippit aff.  If sae, ye’ll tak the wrang soo by the lugg, and I counsel you to let him bide, for he’s high i’ favour wi’ the King.”

Turning at this address, Nicholas recognised the king’s jester, Archie Armstrong, a merry little knave, with light blue eyes, long yellow hair hanging about his ears, and a sandy beard.  There was a great deal of mother wit about Archie, and quite as much shrewdness as folly.  He wore no distinctive dress as jester—­the bauble and coxcomb having been long discontinued—­but was simply clad in the royal livery.

“And so Master Potts is in favour with his Majesty, eh, Archie?” asked the squire, hoping to obtain some information from him.

“And sae war you the day efore yesterday, when you hunted at Myerscough,” replied the jester.

“But how have I forfeited the King’s good opinion?” asked Nicholas.  “Come, you are a good fellow, Archie, and will tell me.”

“Dinna think to fleech me, man,” replied the jester, cunningly.—­“I ken what I ken, and that’s mair than you’ll get frae me wi’ a’ your speering.  The King’s secrets are safe wi’ Archie—­and for a good reason, that he is never tauld them.  You’re a gude huntsman, and sae is his Majesty; but there’s ae kind o’ game he likes better than anither, and that’s to be found maistly i’ these pairts—­I mean witches, and sic like fearfu’ carlines.  We maun hae the country rid o’ them, and that’s what his Majesty intends, and if you’re a wise man you’ll lend him a helping hand.  But I maun in to disjune.”

And with this the jester capered off, leaving Nicholas like one stupefied.  He was roused, however, by a smart slap on the shoulder from Sir John Finett.

“What! pondering over the masque, Master Nicholas, or thinking of the petition you have to present to his Majesty?” cried the master of the ceremonies, “Let neither trouble you.  The one will be well played, I doubt not, and the other well received, I am sure, for I know the king’s sentiments on the subject.  But touching the dame, Master Nicholas—­have you found one willing and able to take part in the masque?”