"I mean a man sad and grave as the monks of Beaulieu," said the
jester.

"He!" they both cried. "No, indeed! He was foremost in all
sports." "Ah!" cried Stephen, "mind you not, Ambrose, his teaching
us leap-frog, and aye leaping over one of us himself, with the other
in his arms?"

"Ah! sadly changed, sadly changed," said the jester, standing
upright, with a most mournful countenance. "Maybe you'd not thank
me if I showed him to you, young sirs, that is, if he be the man."

"Nay! is he in need, or distress?" cried the brothers.

"Poor Hal!" returned the fool, shaking his head with mournfulness in
his voice.

"Oh, take us to him, good--good jester," cried Ambrose. "We are
young and strong. We will work for him."

"What, a couple of lads like you, that have come to London seeking
for him to befriend you--deserving well my cap for that matter.
Will ye be guided to him, broken and soured--no more gamesome, but a
sickly old runagate?"

"Of course," cried Ambrose. "He is our mother's brother. We must
care for him."

"Master Headley will give us work, mayhap," said Stephen, turning to
Tibble. "I could clean the furnaces."