Our camp was made in a fair and pleasant glen, some two or three miles from Blackpool. We had eaten of the bread and meat in our pouches, and sat at ease about our camp fires, my father having well seen to it that sentinels were posted against any sortie of the enemy. Suddenly one of these, half a furlong away in the wood, called out to us and pointed down a pathway to where it crossed a stream a bowshot below our camp. There were approaching two men in the Lincoln green, and bearing a cloth of white which had been tied to a rough pole standard. “Ha!” cried Squire Dunwoodie, “here come two of the varlets with a message. We will hear it; and if we like it not, will hang them up to yonder limb.” “Nay!” cried my father, angrily, “we shall do no violence to bearers of a flag of truce, be they honest men or thieves. ’Tis like the Monkslayer begs for mercy; but whate’er his message, the bearers of it shall return to him unscathed.” The envoys now approached and, bowing low before Lord Mountjoy, delivered to him a folded parchment. My father bent his brows upon this for a moment, then exclaiming in wrath, bade me read it to the assembled company. These were the words of the scroll: “To Robert, Lord of Mountjoy, Geoffrey, Heir of Carleton and other worshipful lords and gentlemen: “Know that my men have this day taken prisoner, and now securely hold for ransom Elizabeth, Lady of Carleton with two of her attendants. Some three score of my greenwood rangers are now held captive by you, if indeed you have not already done violence upon them. These friends and followers of mine I now ask that you freely release, without injury or mutilation, and that they go free before the sunrise of to-morrow. Also that you then withdraw all your armed forces from Blackpool Forest. Then shall the Lady and her attendants likewise depart without harm from me or mine. If so be you refuse my terms, then when the sun is one hour high you shall receive a messenger from me who will bear with him the left hand of the aforesaid Lady of Carleton. If by sunset of to-morrow my men have not been suffered to freely return, another messenger shall bring you the lady’s right hand. “My fastness you shall never take. If you attempt it, at the first alarm the prisoners shall die. Enough is said to make plain my will. Those who have had dealings with me will tell you that my word for good or for ill I always keep. “_William of Tyndale_, Called by some the Monkslayer.” “Oh, the murderous varlets!” cried Sir Geoffrey; and I thought it no shame to him that tears streamed down his face, “they will cut off her hands. ’Twere better far that they slew her outright. Oh! to have that bloody villain for a moment within sure aim I would willingly die the instant after.” “How could she have been taken?” asked Lord Mountjoy.