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.”