I caught my breath in dismay. Such a threat I knew the crafty Gilroy quite capable of carrying out. For myself I had little concern: the Mountjoys were too strong in the Western country and too valuable to the King’s cause for any such matter to bring down upon us any serious menace. But Cedric was a yeoman born; and many there were to think with spite and envy of his rise to knightly dignity. Sir Philip now burst forth with a cackling laugh—the first sound that had come from him since I had him at the wall with his hands o’er his head. “Ha, Grimsby!” he jibed, “thou’rt not so great a victor as it seemed. Mayhap the fee of Grimsby will soon be vacant once more.” Then Cedric spoke again, his words being pronounced with the same slow heedfulness with which the Lord of Gilroy had uttered his threat a moment since. “’Tis true, my lord, that naught prevents thee from sending or carrying this tale to the King. ’Tis also true—and this mayhap thou hast forgotten—that naught prevents _me_, in the event of thy wishing to carry this quarrel further, from taking to the King the full account (well known to me though thou hast thought it hidden) of thy doings and those of the Carringtons during the weeks that followed the King’s return to England, and while his traitorous brother, Prince John, with the aid of certain gentlemen who might have been more loyally employed, strove to keep him from his throne, and even, so ’tis said, to deprive him of life.” Before the half of this had been spoken the face of Lord Gilroy had grown pale as death, and he seemed to shrink a full handsbreadth in stature. His nephew gazed from one to the other of us with whitened cheeks and foolish, open mouth. As soon as Cedric had finished, Lord Gilroy began in a tone far different from any he had used that day: “Nay, nay, Grimsby and Mountjoy both! Why _should_ we make of this trifling despite o’er a runagate thrall such a matter of bitter menacing? In truth, ’twere well should we all forget this day of petty quarreling and live in neighborly peace henceforth.” “Nothing would better please me,” quoth Sir Cedric in reply. “And thou, Mountjoy?” pursued Lord Gilroy, “what sayest thou?” “With all my heart,” I replied. Lord Gilroy seemed about to offer his hand in token of our reconciliation; but mayhap something in our faces stayed him. With a hurried bow he turned once more to the door of the lodge. After him went Sir Philip, reminding me in his shrunken confidence of a rain-drenched chanticleer. At the brookside, they climbed sullenly upon their horses’ backs, and without a word to their followers, spurred away through the forest. An hour later, Egbert, the freeman, astride a good horse from the Grimsby stables, with cross-bow in hand and gold in pouch, was riding through the twilight on the road to Shrewsbury. CHAPTER XIII—ON THE ROAD TO RUNNYMEDE