a pack of
runagates who are wont to fly even at the flash of our pennons and the
tramp of our horses! I say to thee, priest, contrive some cast of thine
art to keep the knaves where they are until our friends bring up their
lances."

With these words, Front-de-Boeuf led the way to a postern where, passing
the moat on a single plank, they reached a small barbican, or exterior
defense, which communicated with the open field by a well-fortified
sally-port.

"Begone, then; and if thou wilt do mine errand, and return hither when
it is done, thou shalt see Saxon flesh cheap as ever was hog's in the
shambles of Sheffield. And, hark thee! thou seemest to be a jolly
confessor--come hither after the onslaught and thou shalt have as much
good wine as would drench thy whole convent."

"Assuredly we shall meet again," answered Cedric.

"Something in the hand the whilst," continued the Norman; and, as they
parted at the postern door, he thrust in Cedric's reluctant hand a gold
[v]byzant, adding, "Remember, I will flay off both cowl and skin if thou
failest in thy purpose."

The supposed priest passed out of the door without further words.

Front-de-Boeuf turned back within the castle.

"Ho! Giles jailer," he called, "let them bring Cedric of Rotherwood
before me, and the other churl, his companion--him I mean of
Coningsburgh--Athelstane there, or what call they him? Their very names
are an encumbrance to a Norman knight's mouth, and have, as it were, a
flavor of bacon. Give me a stoop of wine, as jolly Prince John would
say, that I may wash away the relish. Place it in the armory, and
thither lead the prisoners."

His commands were obeyed; and upon entering that Gothic apartment, hung
with many spoils won by his own valor and that of his father, he found a
flagon of wine on a massive oaken table, and the two Saxon captives
under the guard of four of his dependants. Front-de-Boeuf took a long
draught of wine and then addressed his prisoners, for the imperfect
light prevented his perceiving that the more important of them had
escaped.

"Gallants of England," said Front-de-Boeuf, "how relish ye your
entertainment at Torquilstone? Faith and Saint Dennis, an ye pay not a
rich ransom, I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these
windows till the kites and hooded crows have made skeletons of you!
Speak out, ye Saxon dogs, what bid ye for your worthless lives? What say
you, you of Rotherwood?"

"Not a [v]doit I,"