“Good four evangelists,” cried the youth who had spoken first—­a tall, ill-favoured, and sallow young man in a cloak of blue lined with scarlet, swaggering it with long strides before the others, “tell us which of you four is Messire Matthew.  For, being a tax-gatherer, he will assuredly have money of his own, and besides, since the sad death of your worthy friend Judas, he must have succeeded him as your treasurer.”

“This is the keeper of our humble store, noble sir,” answered the Lord James Douglas, quietly, indicating the giant Malise with his left hand, “but spare him and us, I pray you courteously!”

“Ha, so,” mocked the tall youth, turning to Malise, “then the gentleman of the receipt of custom hath grown strangely about the chest since he went a-wandering from Galilee!”

And he reached forward his hand to pull away the cloak which hung round the great frame of the master armourer.

Malise MacKim understood nothing of his words or of his intent, but without looking at his tormentor or any of the company, he asked of James Douglas, in a voice like the first distant mutterings of a thunder-storm, “Shall I clout him?”

“Nay, be patient, Malise, I bid you.  This is an ill town in which to get rid of a quarrel once begun.  Be patient!” commanded James Douglas under his breath.

“We are clerks ourselves,” the swarthy youth went on, “and we have come to the conclusion that such holy palmers as you be, men from Burgundy or the Midi, as I guess by your speech, Spaniards by your cloaks and this good tax-gatherer’s beard, ought long ago to have taken the vows of poverty.  If not, you shall take them now.  For, most worthy evangelistic four, be it known unto you that I am Saint Peter and can loose or bind.  So turn out your money-bags.  Draw your blades, limber lads!”

Whereupon his companions with one accord drew their swords and advanced upon the Scots.  These stood still without moving as if they had been taken wholly unarmed.

“Shall I clout them now?” rumbled Malise the second time, with an anxious desire in his voice.

“Bide a wee yet,” whispered the Lord James; “we will try the soft answer once more, and if that fail, why then, old Samson, you may clout your fill.”

“His fill!” corrected Malise, grimly.

“Your pardon, good gentlemen,” said James of Douglas aloud to the spokesman, “we are poor men and travel with nothing but the merest necessities—­of which surely you would not rob us.”

“Nay, holy St. Luke,” mocked the swarthy one, “not rob.  That is an evil word—­rather we would relieve you of temptation for your own souls’ good.  You are come for your sins to Paris.  You know that the love of money is the root of all evil.  So in giving to us who are clerks of Paris you will not lose your ducats, but only contribute of your abundance to Holy Mother Church.  I am a clerk, see—­I do not deceive you!  I will both shrive and absolve you in return for the filthy lucre!”