atmosphere and scanty fare like a hero. Yet he was a prisoner in
the castle of his fathers.

And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain. The very
thought that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught
was in itself sufficiently painful.

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay," and Martin left it.

The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far
more compassion. He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool
trade. He had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the
spindle and loom. He had two sons, one of twelve, one of five;
three daughters, one almost marriageable; he had six apprentices
and twelve workmen carding wool; he had the town business to
discharge; he sat upon the bench in the town hall and administered
justice to petty offenders. And here was he, torn from all this, and
consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce marauding young "noble."

To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following
day, and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux.

"The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and
honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it
pleases thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy
presence."

"Thanks! For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken
off, thou hast learnt thy language well. But just now it would be
more to the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get