“The same. He would steal the pennies from the eyes of the dead, if no avenger were by. But ’tis spite rather than greed that prompts him in this matter of my friend. Some years ago, when we were all lads together, young Bardolph, who is the son of an innkeeper at Rothwell, came riding past Birkenhead with some village comrades of his. In a foolish attempt at wit, he cast some foul insult at Wilfrid who stood by the way, watching them pass. In an instant, Wilfrid had snatched him from the saddle and rolled him well in a puddle of mud that chanced to be at hand, so that Bardolph rode home at last a sorry spectacle indeed. That day he ne’er forgot, it seems, and only now has found an opportunity for vengeance. He hath been given the charge of the work at Kimberley where Prince John plans to enlarge and strengthen the fortress and fill it with a numerous garrison. He hath need of many cattle for the work of hauling the stone and timber; and though we are not now at war, and there can be seen no pressing need for haste, he seizes the horses and oxen from the farmers roundabout and drives the work as though the Scotch and Welsh were o’er the borders both at once. With this excuse he seized the yoke cattle at Birkenhead.” “But Birkenhead is full five leagues from Kimberley.” “Aye, and that it is that shows the act was done with malice and with none of necessity. A hundred farms were nearer to the castle, and some of them might far better spare their oxen. ’Twas in the thick of harvest too. Thou knowest how the rains have held it back till it seems that the snows may cover the uncut grain if the farmers make not haste. But Wilfrid made shift to go on with his hauling in some sort. He put to the yoke a pair of half-broke steers that should not have worked till the spring, and with half loads was bringing his crops to barn and stack. Then what did Bardolph do but come again, with two soldiers at his back, and make demand of Wilfrid for these cattle also.” “The hound! I would I had been there to tell him straight what manner of cur he is.” “There was no need for that. Wilfrid forthwith flew into such a rage as drove from him all fear of what might betide. First he shouted at the bailiff some most naked truths as to his character and doings, then he rushed upon him, and, warding off a sword blow, pulled him from his horse, even as he had done that other time, and ere the soldiers could interfere had broken Bardolph’s nose with one great blow from his fist.” “Oh Saints above! Did he so indeed? There’s a yeoman for thee of the sort that win England’s battles. I would we _had_ him under Mountjoy banner. But what next occurred?”