Front-de-Boeuf heard the words imperfectly, but the action was suspicious⁠—“Archers,” he called to the warders on the outward battlements, “send me an arrow through yon monk’s frock!⁠—yet stay,” he said, as his retainers were bending their bows, “it avails not⁠—we must thus far trust him since we have no better shift. I think he dares not betray me⁠—at the worst I can but treat with these Saxon dogs whom I have safe in kennel.⁠—Ho! Giles jailor, 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 flavour of bacon⁠—Give me a stoup of wine, as jolly Prince John said, that I may wash away the relish⁠—place it in the armoury, and thither lead the prisoners.”

His commands were obeyed; and, upon entering that Gothic apartment, hung with many spoils won by his own valour and that of his father, he found a flagon of wine on the massive oaken table, and the two Saxon captives under the guard of four of his dependants. Front-de-Boeuf took a long drought of wine, and then addressed his prisoners;⁠—for the manner in which Wamba drew the cap over his face, the change of dress, the gloomy and broken light, and the Baron’s imperfect acquaintance with the features of Cedric, (who avoided his Norman neighbours, and seldom stirred beyond his own domains,) prevented him from discovering that the most important of his captives had made his escape.