g, poor sinner, for the priest."

Dick gave ear. Out of a low window, hard by where they were talking,
groans and murmurs came to his ear.

"Lieth he there?" he asked.

"Ay, in the second porter's chamber," answered Hatch. "We could not bear
him further, soul and body were so bitterly at odds. At every step we
lifted him, he thought to wend. But now, methinks, it is the soul that
suffereth. Ever for the priest he crieth, and Sir Oliver, I wot not why,
still cometh not. 'Twill be a long shrift; but poor Appleyard and poor
Selden, they had none."

Dick stooped to the window and looked in. The little cell was low and
dark, but he could make out the wounded soldier lying moaning on his
pallet.

"Carter, poor friend, how goeth it?" he asked.

"Master Shelton," returned the man, in an excited whisper, "for the dear
light of heaven, bring the priest. Alack, I am sped; I am brought very
low down; my hurt is to the death. Ye may do me no more service; this
shall be the last. Now, for my poor soul's interest, and as a loyal
gentleman, bestir you; for I have that matter on my conscience that
shall drag me deep."

He groaned, and Dick heard the grating of his teeth, whether in pain or
terror.

Just then Sir Daniel appeared upon the threshold of the hall. He had a
letter in one hand.

"Lads," he said, "we have had a shog, we have had a tumble; wherefore,
then, deny it? Rather it imputeth to get speedily again to saddle. This
old Harry the Sixt has had the undermost. Wash we, then, our hands of
him. I have a good friend that rideth next the duke, the Lord of
Wensleydale. Well, I have writ a letter to my friend, praying his good
lordship, and offering large satisfaction for the past and reasonable
surety for the future. Doubt not but he will lend a favourable ear. A
prayer without gifts is like a song without music: I surfeit him with
promises, boys--I spare not to promise. What, then, is lacking? Nay, a
great thing--wherefore should I deceive you?--a great thing and a
difficult: a messenger to bear it. The woods--y'are not ignorant of
that--lie thick with our ill-willers. Haste is most needful; but without
sleight and caution all is naught. Which, then, of this company will
take me this letter, bear me it to my Lord of Wensleydale, and bring me
the answer back?"

One man instantly arose.

"I will, an't like you," said he. "I will even risk my carcase."

"Nay, Dicky Bowyer, not so," returned the knight. "It likes me no