Now the town was full, and every inn a-throng with company--lords, both
great and small, knights and esquires and their several followings, as
archers, men-at-arms, and the like, all thither come from far and near
to joust at the great tournament soon to be, to honour the birthday of
Benedicta, Duchess of Tissingors, Ambremont, and divers other fair cities,
towns and villages. Thus our travellers sought lodgment in vain, whereat
Sir Pertinax cursed beneath his breath, and Duke Jocelyn hummed, as was
each his wont and custom; and ever the grim Knight's anger grew.

Until, at last, an humble inn they saw--
A sorry place, with bush above the door.
This evil place they straightway entered in,
Where riot reigned, the wild, unlovely din
Of archers, men-at-arms, and rogues yet worse,
Who drank and sang, whiles some did fight and curse.
An evil place indeed, a lawless crew,
And landlord, like his inn, looked evil too:
Small was his nose, small were his pig-like eyes,
But ears had he of most prodigious size,
A brawny rogue, thick-jowled and beetle-browed,
Who, spying out our strangers 'mid the crowd,

Beholding them in humble, mean array,
With gestures fierce did order them away.
"Nay," quoth Sir Pertinax, "here will we bide,
Here will we eat and drink and sleep beside.
Go, bring us beef, dost hear? And therewith mead,
And, when we've ate, good beds and clean we 'll need."
"Ho!" cried the host. "Naught unto ye I'll bring
Until yon Fool shall caper first and sing!"