“Good yeoman,” said Cedric, “my heart is oppressed with sadness. The noble Athelstane of Coningsburgh is no more⁠—the last sprout of the sainted Confessor! Hopes have perished with him which can never return!⁠—A sparkle hath been quenched by his blood, which no human breath can again rekindle! My people, save the few who are now with me, do but tarry my presence to transport his honoured remains to their last mansion. The Lady Rowena is desirous to return to Rotherwood , and must be escorted by a sufficient force. I should, therefore, ere now, have left this place; and I waited⁠—not to share the booty, for, so help me God and Saint Withold! as neither I nor any of mine will touch the value of a liard⁠—I waited but to render my thanks to thee and to thy bold yeomen, for the life and honour ye have saved.”

“Nay, but,” said the chief Outlaw, “we did but half the work at most⁠—take of the spoil what may reward your own neighbours and followers.”

“I am rich enough to reward them from mine own wealth,” answered Cedric.