table were noisy and rude enough, and Ranulph suspected that his entertainment had been ordered partly to keep them from getting out of hand with drinking and rioting.  He had contrived a clown’s costume from some of his belongings, aided by a little flour and paint, and a bauble made of a toasting fork stuck through an apple.  When he pranced into the hall the soldiers yelled with surprise and delight.  Behind him at a discreet distance came a small boy, also attired in antic fashion, carrying carefully in both hands a huge pie.  The cook was peeping through the screen to see what was going to happen.

Neither Ranulph nor Peirol gave so much as a glance at the captives, who were too much amazed to say anything at first, and quickly saw the danger of any betraying comment.  The troubadour marched up to Biterres, asked permission to sing, and began a doggerel ballad about one Sir Orpheus and his magic harp.  The harp, as the song explained, had the power of luring pigeons, rabbits, wild geese, lambs, sucking-pigs and even fish from the stewponds, into its owner’s dinner-pot, so that Orpheus never lacked for good living and became very fat.  The bouillabaisse of Marseilles, the Norman ragout of eels, the roast goose of Arles, the pigs’ feet of Spain, the partridge pasty of Periguex,—­all the luscious dishes of a land of good eating were described in a way that made these old campaigners howl with reminiscent joy.  The rollicking, impudent tune, the allusions to camp customs more notorious than honest, went straight to the heart of the blackguard audience, and half the voices in the room promptly joined the chorus.  Eurydice, the singer went on, was an excellent cook, so renowned that the prince of the lower regions abducted her, and Orpheus was allowed to regain possession of her only on the solemn condition that she should make a pie for that sovereign every twelvemonth.  This pie, according to the final verse of the song, would now be cut, so that the company could see exactly what a Plutonian banquet was like.

The troubadour borrowed a dagger from a man-at-arms, made one or two slashes at the ornate crust of the pie—­and out flew four live pigeons.

Then Peirol gave his birdlike call, and eluding the hands raised to catch them the pigeons swooped down to him.  Ranulph began to dance, playing his lute at the same time, and the boy followed, with the doves flying above him just out of reach.  In saucy improvised couplets the troubadour called upon one and another to join the dancing, until before any one quite knew what was happening, the company in the lower hall was drawn into a winding lengthening line following the leaders in a sort of farandole.  The hall was not large enough for this to go on indefinitely, and Ranulph suddenly bolted into the outer air, where the shouting, laughing crowd paused for breath—­and the pigeons went soaring into the sky.

The party from the table on the dais came out to look on, and Garin de Biterres, as he saw the mounting birds, grew suspicious.  “Here, Jean!  Michaud!” he said sharply.  “Loose the hunting hawks!”