clapt in prison, some hanged; and some, with nose and lips
cut off, were sent forward to our Lord the Pope, for the disgrace and
confusion of him (_in dedecus et confusionem ejus_). I, however,
pretended to be Scotch, and putting on the garb of a Scotchman, and
taking the gesture of one, walked along; and when anybody mocked at
me, I would brandish my staff in the manner of that weapon they call
_gaveloc_,[8] uttering comminatory words after the way of the Scotch.
To those that met and questioned me who I was, I made no answer but:
_Ride, ride Rome; turne Cantwereberei_.[9] Thus did I, to conceal
myself and my errand, and get safer to Rome under the guise of a
Scotchman.

Having at last obtained a Letter from our Lord the Pope according to
my wishes, I turned homewards again. I had to pass through a certain
strong town on my road; and lo, the soldiers thereof surrounded me,
seizing me, and saying: "This vagabond (_iste solivagus_), who
pretends to be Scotch, is either a spy, or has Letters from the false
Pope Alexander." And whilst they examined every stitch and rag of me,
my leggings (_caligas_), breeches, and even the old shoes that I
carried over my shoulder in the way of the Scotch,--I put my hand into
the leather scrip I wore, wherein our Lord the Pope's Letter lay,
close by a little jug (_ciffus_) I had for drinking out of; and the
Lord God so pleasing, and St. Edmund, I got out both the Letter and
the jug together; in such a way that, extending my arm aloft, I held
the Letter hidden between jug and hand: they saw the jug, but the
Letter they saw not. And thus I escaped out of their hands in the name
of the Lord. Whatever money I had, they took from me; wherefore I had
to beg from door to door, without any payment (_sine omni expensa_)
till I came to England again. But hearing that the Woolpit Church was
already given to Geoffry Ridell, my soul was struck with sorrow
because I had laboured in vain. Coming home, therefore, I sat me down
secretly under the Shrine of St. Edmund, fearing lest our Lord Abbot
should seize and imprison me, though I had done no mischief; nor was
there a monk who durst speak to me? nor a laic who durst bring me food
except by stealth.'[10]

Such resting and welcoming found Brother Samson, with his worn soles,
and strong heart! He sits silent, revolving many thoughts, at the foot
of St. Edmund's Shrine. In the wide Earth, if it be not Saint Edmund,
what friend or refuge has he? Our Lord A