hat in which the bishop was concealed--on what
suspicion does not appear.

"Knock in the head of this," he ordered.

He was quickly obeyed.

"Is there any one here?" he asked.

"Only a poor prisoner," came a quavering voice from the depths of the
cask.

"Ha! ha!" laughed Teutgaud; "so it is you, Master Isengrin, who are
hiding here!"

Seizing the trembling bishop by the hair, he dragged him without
ceremony from the cask. The frightened culprit fell on his knees and
begged piteously for his life. He would do anything; he would give up
the bishopric, yield them all the money he had, and leave the country.

Insults and blows were the only replies. In a minute more the
unfortunate man was dead. Teutgaud, true to his profession, cut off his
finger to obtain the episcopal ring that glittered on it. Stripped of
its clothing, the body was hurled into a corner, and the furious throng
flung stones and mud at it, as the only vent remaining to their
revengeful passions.

All that day and the night that followed the armed and maddened townsmen
searched the streets and houses of Laon for the supporters of the
murdered bishop, and numbers of them shared his fate. Not the guilty
alone, but many of the innocent, perished before the blind wrath of the
multitude. "The progress of the fire," says Guibert, "kindled on two
sides at once, was so rapid, and the winds drove the flames so furiously
in the direction of the convent of St. Vincent, that the monks were
afraid of seeing all they possessed become the fire's prey, and all the
persons who had taken refuge in this monastery trembled as if they had
seen swords hanging over their heads."

It was a day and night of frightful excess, one of those dread occasions
which arise when men are roused to violence by injustice, and for the
time break all the bonds of mercy and moderation which ordinarily
control them. Regret at their insensate rage is sure to succeed all such
outbreaks. Retribution is likely to follow. Consternation came to the
burghers of Laon when calm thought returned to them. They had defied the
king. What would he do? To protect themselves they added to the burden
of their offences, summoning to their aid Thomas de Marle, the son of
Lord Enguerraud de Coucy, a man who was little better than a brigand,
and with a detestable reputation for cruelty and ferocity.

De Marle was not quite ready to undertake this task. He consulted his
people, who declared that it would b