olding the wicket open. "Sir Piers will
see thee. I told him, being sent of none, thou wert like to have no
token."

The unknown visitor followed the porter in silence through the paved
courtyard, up a flight of stone steps, and into a small chamber, hung
with blue. Here, at a table covered with parchments, sat one of King
Henry's ministers, Sir Piers de Rievaulx, son of the Bishop of
Winchester, the worst living foe of Earl Hubert of Kent. He was on the
younger side of middle age, and was only not quite so bad a man as the
father from whom he inherited his dark gleaming eyes, lithe quick
motions, intense prejudices, and profound artfulness of character.

"Christ save you! Come forward," said Sir Piers. "Shut the door,
Oliver, and let none enter till I bid it.--Now, who art thou, and what
wouldst thou with me?"

"I am Delecresse, son of Abraham of Norwich."

"Ha! A Jew, of course. Thy face matches thy name. Now, thy news?"

"Will my noble knight be pleased to tell his unworthy servant if he
likes the taste of revenge?"

Delecresse despised himself for the words he used. A son of Israel to
humble himself thus to one of the Goyim! But it was expedient that the
"creeping thing" should be flattered and gratified, in order to induce
him to act as a tool.

"Decidedly!" replied Sir Piers, looking fixedly at Delecresse.

"Your Honour hates Sir Hubert of Kent, or I am mistaken?"

"Ha, _pure foy_! Worse than I hate the Devil."

The Devil was very near to both at that moment.

"If I help you to be revenged on him, will you pay me by giving me my
revenge on another?"

Delecresse had dropped alike his respectful words and subservient
manner, and spoke up now, as man to man.

"`Turn about is fair play,' I suppose," said Sir Piers. "If thou seek
not revenge on any friend of mine, I will."

"I seek it on Sir Richard de Clare, the young Earl of Gloucester."

"_He_ is no friend of mine!" said Sir Piers, between his teeth. "His
father married the woman I wanted. I should rather enjoy it than
otherwise."

"The Lady his mother yet lives."

"What is that to me? She is an old hag. What do I care for her now?"

Delecresse felt staggered for a moment. Bad as he was in one respect,
he was capable of personal attachment as well as of hatred; and Sir
Piers' delicate notions of love rather astonished him. But Sir Piers
was very far from being the only man who was--or is--incapable of
entertaining any others