"Who, and what art thou, noble champion?" said Prince John, still
laughing.
"A fool by right of descent," answered the Jester; "I am Wamba, the
son of Witless, who was the son of Weatherbrain, who was the son of an
Alderman."
"Make room for the Jew in front of the lower ring," said Prince John,
not unwilling perhaps to, seize an apology to desist from his original
purpose; "to place the vanquished beside the victor were false
heraldry."
"Knave upon fool were worse," answered the Jester, "and Jew upon bacon
worst of all."
"Gramercy! good fellow," cried Prince John, "thou pleasest me--Here,
Isaac, lend me a handful of byzants."
As the Jew, stunned by the request, afraid to refuse, and unwilling
to comply, fumbled in the furred bag which hung by his girdle, and
was perhaps endeavouring to ascertain how few coins might pass for a
handful, the Prince stooped from his jennet and settled Isaac's doubts
by snatching the pouch itself from his side; and flinging to Wamba a
couple of the gold pieces which it contained, he pursued his career
round the lists, leaving the Jew to the derision of those around him,
and himself receiving as much applause from the spectators as if he had
done some honest and honourable action.