“Go patter thy petitions to heaven,” said the fierce Norman, “for we on earth have no time to listen to them.⁠—Ho! there, Anselm I see that seething pitch and oil are ready to pour on the heads of these audacious traitors⁠—Look that the cross-bowmen lack not bolts. 32 ⁠—Fling abroad my banner with the old bull’s head⁠—the knaves shall soon find with whom they have to do this day!”

“But, noble sir,” continued the monk, persevering in his endeavours to draw attention, “consider my vow of obedience, and let me discharge myself of my Superior’s errand.”

“Away with this prating dotard,” said Front-de Boeuf, “lock him up in the chapel, to tell his beads till the broil be over. It will be a new thing to the saints in Torquilstone to hear aves and paters; they have not been so honoured, I trow, since they were cut out of stone.”