“Sir Prior,” he said, “thou blowest a merry note, but it may not ransom thee⁠—we cannot afford, as the legend on a good knight’s shield hath it, to set thee free for a blast. Moreover, I have found thee⁠—thou art one of those, who, with new French graces and Tra-li-ras, disturb the ancient English bugle notes.⁠—Prior, that last flourish on the recheat hath added fifty crowns to thy ransom, for corrupting the true old manly blasts of venerie.”

“Well, friend,” said the Abbot, peevishly, “thou art ill to please with thy woodcraft. I pray thee be more conformable in this matter of my ransom. At a word⁠—since I must needs, for once, hold a candle to the devil⁠—what ransom am I to pay for walking on Watling-street, without having fifty men at my back?”

“Were it not well,” said the Lieutenant of the gang apart to the Captain, “that the Prior should name the Jew’s ransom, and the Jew name the Prior’s?”