Duncan stood politely and waited. His thoughts turned to the fields. He worked out which direction he would cut his next farrow, and how much feed he had left for his ox, and which drying skin he would cut to make his next pair of boots, when the king spoke.

"We are impressed."

He turned to the Cardinal for an opinion.

The Cardinal nodded in agreement.

"We consider this parchment to be of the greatest value. . . but we are undecided as to its origin."

The king turned to the bishops for their opinion.

"What think you?" he demanded.

"It is the work of the devil!" said the bishops, more or less together.

The Cardinal frowned.

"It is the word of God!" he said.

Duncan began to feel uncomfortable. The situation was becoming familiar.

The king turned to Duncan and leaned forward, balancing on his many-ringed royal knuckles.

"And what think you?"

"I know not what to think," said Duncan, "I am but a humble ploughman, servant of lord Smythe. I found the parchment on the lea but six days ago. It is none of mine, sire! I know not what to think!"

"I do not believe you," said the king deliberately.

The Cardinal whispered something in the king's ear, which made Duncan feel even more uncomfortable, and the king's face changed to what could be called an evil grin, (were it not impolite to speak of a sovereign this way), and the king began to roll the newspaper together again.

"This man should be hung!" said the bishops.

"He is a prophet!" stormed the Cardinal.

"Destroy this man of the devil and burn his wicked writings!" shouted the bishops.

"Inform the pope, and have this man declared a saint