“A forfeit⁠—a forfeit,” shouted the robbers; “a Saxon hath thirty zecchins, and returns sober from a village! An undeniable and unredeemable forfeit of all he hath about him.”

“I hoarded it to purchase my freedom,” said Gurth.

“Thou art an ass,” replied one of the thieves “three quarts of double ale had rendered thee as free as thy master, ay, and freer too, if he be a Saxon like thyself.”

“A sad truth,” replied Gurth; “but if these same thirty zecchins will buy my freedom from you, unloose my hands, and I will pay them to you.”

“Hold,” said one who seemed to exercise some authority over the others; “this bag which thou bearest, as I can feel through thy cloak, contains more coin than thou hast told us of.”

“It is the good knight my master’s,” answered Gurth, “of which, assuredly, I would not have spoken a word, had you been satisfied with working your will upon mine own property.”