discretion.”
“The foul fiend quell the Prior!” said Front-de-Boeuf; “his morning’s drought has been a deep one. When did thy master hear of a Norman baron unbuckling his purse to relieve a churchman, whose bags are ten times as weighty as ours?—And how can we do aught by valour to free him, that are cooped up here by ten times our number, and expect an assault every moment?”
“And that was what I was about to tell you,” said the monk, “had your hastiness allowed me time. But, God help me, I am old, and these foul onslaughts distract an aged man’s brain. Nevertheless, it is of verity that they assemble a camp, and raise a bank against the walls of this castle.”
“To the battlements!” cried De Bracy, “and let us mark what these knaves do without;” and so saying, he opened a latticed window which led to a sort of bartisan or projecting balcony, and immediately called from thence to those in the apartment—“Saint Dennis, but the old monk hath brought true tidings!—They bring forward mantelets and pavisses, and the archers muster on the skirts of the wood like a dark cloud before a hailstorm.”