“You thought amiss, Sir Knight,” said Athelstane, “and Wamba lied. My teeth are in good order, and that my supper shall presently find⁠—No thanks to the Templar though, whose sword turned in his hand, so that the blade struck me flatlings, being averted by the handle of the good mace with which I warded the blow; had my steel-cap been on, I had not valued it a rush, and had dealt him such a counter-buff as would have spoilt his retreat. But as it was, down I went, stunned, indeed, but unwounded. Others, of both sides, were beaten down and slaughtered above me, so that I never recovered my senses until I found myself in a coffin⁠—(an open one, by good luck)⁠—placed before the altar of the church of Saint Edmund’s. I sneezed repeatedly⁠—groaned⁠—awakened and would have arisen, when the Sacristan and Abbot, full of terror, came running at the noise, surprised, doubtless, and no way pleased to find the man alive, whose heirs they had proposed themselves to be. I asked for wine⁠—they gave me some, but it must have been highly medicated, for I slept yet more deeply than before, and wakened not for many hours.

I found my arms swathed down⁠—my feet tied so fast that mine ankles ache at the very remembrance⁠—the place was utterly dark⁠—the oubliette, as I suppose, of their accursed convent, and from the close, stifled, damp smell, I conceive it is also used for a place of sepulture. I had strange thoughts of what had befallen me, when the door of my dungeon creaked, and two villain monks entered. They would have persuaded me I was in purgatory, but I knew too well the pursy short-breathed voice of the Father Abbot.⁠—Saint Jeremy! how different from that tone with which he used to ask me for another slice of the haunch!⁠—the dog has feasted with me from

Christmas to Twelfth-night .”

“Have patience, noble Athelstane,” said the King, “take breath⁠—tell your story at leisure⁠—beshrew me but such a tale is as well worth listening to as a romance.”