"But you, Dunstan, you cannot be seen--"
Gilbert stopped, for he noticed suddenly that both his men were clad in
new clothes of good cloth and leather.
"The servants are honoured with their lord," said Dunstan. "The King
sent gifts for us, too."
"That was a man's thought, not a woman's," said Gilbert, almost to
himself.
He went out, and Dunstan walked by his left, but half a step behind his
stride, as was proper.
The camp was lit up with fires and torches as far as one could see, and
all men were out of doors, either walking up and down, arm in arm, or
sitting before their tents on folding-stools, or on their saddles, or
on packs of baggage. The hundreds and thousands of little Christmas
trees, stuck into the earth amid circles of torches before the newly
whitened tents, made a great garden of boughs and evergreens, and the
yellow glare shone everywhere through lacing branches, and fell on rich
colours and gleaming arms, well polished for the holiday, and lost
itself suddenly in the cold starlight overhead. The air smelt of
evergreen and the aromatic smoke of burning resin.
The night rang with song also, and in some places as many as a hundred
had gathered in company to sing the long Christmas hymns they had
learned as little children far away at home--endless canticles with
endless repetitions, telling the story of the Christ-Child's birth at
Bethlehem, of the adoration of the shepherds, and of the coming of the
Eastern kings.
In one part of the camp the rough Burgundians were drinking the strong
Asian wine in deep draughts, roaring their great choruses between, with
more energy than unction.
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