pty."

'"He fed," said Jehan. "Gilbert the Clerk fetched him meat and wine from
the kitchens. He ate at Gilbert's table."

'This Gilbert was a clerk from Battle Abbey, who kept the accounts of
the Manor of Pevensey. He was tall and pale-coloured, and carried those
new-fashioned beads for counting of prayers. They were large brown nuts
or seeds, and hanging from his girdle with his pen and inkhorn they
clashed when he walked. His place was in the great fireplace. There was
his table of accounts, and there he lay o' nights. He feared the hounds
in the Hall that came nosing after bones or to sleep on the warm ashes,
and would slash at them with his beads--like a woman. When De Aquila sat
in Hall to do justice, take fines, or grant lands, Gilbert would so
write it in the Manor-roll. But it was none of his work to feed our
guests, or to let them depart without his lord's knowledge.

'Said De Aquila, after Jehan was gone down the stair: "Hugh, hast thou
ever told my Gilbert thou canst read Latin hand-of-write?"

'"No," said Hugh. "He is no friend to me, or to Odo my hound either."
'"No matter," said De Aquila. "Let him never know thou canst tell one
letter from its fellow, and"--here he jerked us in the ribs with his
scabbard--"watch him, both of ye. There be devils in Africa, as I have
heard, but by the Saints, there be greater devils in Pevensey!" And that
was all he would say.

'It chanced, some small while afterwards, a Norman man-at-arms would wed
a Saxon wench of the Manor, and Gilbert (we had watched him well since
De Aquila spoke) doubted whether her folk were free or slave. Since De
Aquila would give them a field of good land, if she were free, the
matter came up at the justice in Great Hall before De Aquila. First the
wench's father spoke; then her mother; then all together, till the hall
rang and the hounds bayed. De Aquila held up his hands. "Write her
free," he called to Gilbert by the fireplace. "A' God's name write her
free, before she deafens me! Yes, yes," he said to the wench that was on
her knees at him; "thou art Cerdic's sister, and own cousin to the Lady
of Mercia, if thou wilt be silent. In fifty years there will be neither
Norman nor Saxon, but all English," said he, "and _these_ are the men
that do our work!" He clapped the man-at-arms that was Jehan's nephew on
the shoulder, and kissed the wench, and fretted with his feet among the
rushes to show it was finished. (The Great Hall is always bitter