“Such a thing cannot be stomached, sirs. We lack godliness if we carry such an unclean vagabond with us. My men are grumbling already, and seeing a curse in the fellow.” “Send him back to Paradise.” “The prior will thank you for nothing. One kicks a mangy dog out of the gate, and that’s the end of it.” Swartz listened and said nothing. He was a rough god compared with these boors; he had seen the world and tasted the wine of many countries, and he knew that it is mere foolishness to step in between a clown and his drink. Falconer tried to speak up, but they were against him to a man. “I choose to live with honest men, sir, not with vermin.” Such was the Forest’s verdict. On the second day the gentlemen of the Rose marched into Woodmere, Sir Gregory at their head. There was much cheering, much shaking of hands. “The King was upon the sea.” That night they drank much ale. And women had come from Gawdy Town, bold-eyed wenches dressed as men. Some of the wilder spirits made a rough night of it, shouting, quarreling, and singing songs, and Mellis was kept awake by their clowning. Nor did Martin Valliant get much sleep, for he had to take more than one drunken man by the shoulders and prove to him that the threshold of Mellis’s chamber was sacred ground. The coming of Sir Gregory and the gentlemen from France made matters more sinister for Martin Valliant. Sir Gregory was a man of violent self-pride, obstinate as sin, and far more cruel. He bearded John Falconer. “A pretty chaplain you have found us! This fellow must go, or I’ll not answer for the men.” “We owe him some gratitude.” “And for what? Bloodying our game for us? Dale was a fool in the beginning, and you have been little better than his shadow. I’ll have no women picking and choosing in my company.” Falconer owned as rough a temper as this crop-headed bully, but he knew that Sir Gregory had the crowd at his back. “There is no harm done yet. I will speak to the girl.” “What claim has the wench to be considered?” “The claim of courtesy—and compassion, sir. Look to it, Gregory, I will have none of the bully in you; my fist is as heavy as ever it was.” And there the matter rested for a while. John Falconer did not deceive himself; these mesne lords and squirelings were no children of romance. The wars had bred a savage spirit in the land; the middle age was dying, cruel and brutish in its decadence, and the strong man was not there as yet to smite it down forever with his kingly club. Martin Valliant would have to go; these men of the Forest would not hesitate to sacrifice him. But Mellis? He hardened his heart, and went in search of her, and finding her in the tower room, he shut the door and spoke out. “Child, this man cannot stay with us; he will bring us evil luck.” “Who sent you with that message, John?” “The whole place is whispering it. It might have been born with the men, but our friends will have none of him.”