ranks of priests in square caps and richly embroidered copes, all in
accordant colours. They were returning, as a yeoman told Tibble,
from some great ecclesiastical ceremony, and dinner would be served
instantly.

"That for which Ralf Bowyer lives!" said a voice close by, "He would
fain that the dial's hands were Marie bones, the face blancmange,
wherein the figures should be grapes of Corinth!"

Stephen looked round and saw a man close beside him in what he knew
at once to be the garb of a jester. A tall scarlet velvet cap, with
three peaks, bound with gold braid, and each surmounted with a
little gilded bell, crowned his head, a small crimson ridge to
indicate the cock's comb running along the front. His jerkin and
hose were of motley, the left arm and right leg being blue, their
opposites, orange tawny, while the nether stocks and shoes were in
like manner black and scarlet counterchanged. And yet, somehow,
whether from the way of wearing it, or from the effect of the gold
embroidery meandering over all, the effect was not distressing, but
more like that of a gorgeous bird. The figure was tall, lithe, and
active, the brown ruddy face had none of the blank stare of vacant
idiocy, but was full of twinkling merriment, the black eyes laughed
gaily, and perhaps only so clearsighted and shrewd an observer as
Tibble would have detected a weakness of purpose about the mouth.

There was a roar of laughter at the gibe, as indeed there was at
whatever was uttered by the man whose profession was to make mirth.

"Thou likest thy food well enough thyself, quipsome one," muttered
Ralf.