THE CHRONICLE OF CLEMENDY
some piece from beginning to end, but there was no vestige of them to be seen. I believe Phil Ambrose would have willingly stayed in the streets all the night, for such festivals as this were his chiefest joy, and he walked with his head on one side smiling quaintly to himself. But since the Rubrican, Tom Bamfylde, by dint of running like a coney into every burrow with a sign or ⟨a⟩ bush above it, was becoming very drunk and somewhat tedious, we were resolved to make a start, and waited for him at the door of an inn, but still he came not forth. At last I went after him and going dubiously along a passage that seemed to be without end, found my companion seated in the easiest chair, smoking, drinking, and talking all at once; and in front of him on the settle was a row of olden gray-beards of Uske, who seemed to be listening attentively to his facetious discourses. Forthwith I made my way through a thick cloud of smoke and made Tom follow me out; the which he was very loathe to do, since he was a man apt to hang over his cups. Yet before ten struck we were on horseback, and had sped over the bridge; and went together till the turning to Landevennoc, and here my Lord of Roche-Nemours left us, for his way was to Caerleon. Then we fell into a single file, and Phil Ambrose set a catch going, and so with singing we passed through the solemn scented night, and strove to make the journey fro as pleasant as it had been to.
