Thence he sent his servant to Vienna, a distance of a few miles, to change some gold bezants for the coin of the country. This attracted notice, and the page was carried before a magistrate, and interrogated. He professed to be in the service of a rich merchant who would arrive in a day or two, and, thus escaping, returned to his master, and advised him to hasten away; but Richard was too unwell to proceed, and remained at the inn, doing all in his power to avert suspicion--even attending to the horses, and turning the spit in the kitchen. His precautions were disconcerted; the page, going again to Vienna, imprudently carried in his belt an embroidered hawking-glove, which betrayed its owner to be of high rank; and being again seized and tortured, confessed his master’s name and present hiding-place. Armed men were immediately sent to surround the inn, and the Mayor of Vienna, entering, found the worn-out pilgrim lying asleep upon his bed, and aroused him with the words, “Hail, King of England! In vain thou disguisest thyself; thy face betrays thee.” Awakening, the Lion-heart grasped his sword, declaring he would yield it to none but the Duke. The Mayor told him it was well for him that he had fallen into their hands, rather than into those of the Montferrat family; and Leopold, arriving, reproached him for the insult to the Austrian banner, which indeed was far more dishonored by its lord’s foul treatment of a crusading pilgrim, than by its fall into the moat of Acre. He was conducted to Vienna, and thence to the lonely Castle of Tierenstein, where he was watched day and night by guards with drawn swords. Leopold sent information of his capture to the Emperor, Henry VI., who bore a grudge to Richard for his alliance with Tancred, who had usurped Sicily from the Empress Constance; he therefore offered a price for the illustrious prisoner, and placed him in the strong Castle of Triefels. Months passed away, and no tidings reached him from without. He deemed himself forgotten in his captivity, and composed an indignant _sirvente_ in his favorite Provençal tongue. The second verse we give in the original, for the sake of being brought so near to the royal troubadour: “Or sachen ben, mici hom e mici baron, Angles, Norman, Peytavin, et Gascon, Qu’yeu non hai ja si pauore compagnon Que per ave, lou laissesse en prison. Faire reproche, certes yeu voli. Non; Mais souis dos hivers prez.” Or, as it may be rendered in modern French: “Or sachent bien, mes hommes, mes barons, Anglais, Normands, Poitevins, Gascons, Que je n’ai point si pauvre compagnon Que pour argent, je le laisse en prison. Faire reproche, certes, je ne le veux. Non; Mais suis deux hivers pris.”