It was after such a journey that Cedric returned to the Hall one autumn evening in such a mood of silence and depression as I had never seen since those sad days when he quarreled with my father over the punishment due the churls of De Lancey Manor. At his supper he spoke no word, and ate and drank but little. My lady mother did anxiously inquire if he were ill, for we knew him well as a valiant trencherman, and he had ridden far in a frosty air. He put away her questionings with his usual courtesy, denying that aught ailed him; but me he could not so easily check, for I followed him to his room, and, finding him sitting with his face in his hands, demanded to know as friend and comrade what had turned his world awry. “Sir Richard,” he replied sadly, “hast ever had friend of thine flung into dungeon cell, there to lie at the pleasure of some low-living scoundrel?” “Nay,” I answered quickly, “this evil I have thus far ’scaped, though I well know ’tis common enough in these days, and many there be that suffer it.” “Of those I am one,” replied Cedric. “And now I rack my head to know whether or not there be any possible help for it. Wilfrid, son of the farmer of Birkenhead, was my comrade and playmate since ever I can remember. We hunted and fished and swam together and willingly fought each other’s battles when we were but little lads. Once he plunged in and pulled me from the Tarleton Water, when, far gone with cramp, I had twice sunken. His handling of the long-bow is well-nigh equal to my father’s, and better than that of any youth I know. I had lately planned to bring him to Mountjoy and to say a word to thy father of his deserts.” “And who is it that now hath seized him?” “’Tis that wry-mouthed and rat-eyed scoundrel, Bardolph, that lately hath been made King’s Bailiff, and hath in charge the rebuilding of Kimberley Castle.” “He that plundered the chapel at Ravenstone?”