“We have run, gossips, and there must be a reason for it, or we shall be damned.” Their unanimity was admirable. My Lord of Troy owed them six months’ pay, a shrewd way he had of keeping men at his heels, but he did not concern himself with cowards. These five dogs knew better than to run home with their tails between their legs. Roger Bland was at supper, a noble function in which all stateliness was properly and finely considered. He had a love of taking his meals in public, of playing at pageantry even among the plates. His wealth showed itself in his gold cups and dishes, his tapestries and dorsers, his linen and silver, the musicians, their coats of blue and green, his crowd of serving men, the profusion of food. All this peacocking had a purpose. Men’s senses are conquered and led into subjection by the pomps that paint a picture of power. Fulk de Lisle had returned and brought in the bodies of Vance and the archer. Rich and his men were back from Badger Hill. Neither of these captains had caught much; the Forest did not lightly surrender its secrets. Meanwhile those five fugitive worthies had chosen a player and spokesman, a little Welshman with much language and fiery eyes. He was to tell their tale of the attack on Woodmere to Roger Bland, and dress up a few picturesque lies to give the tale a greater appearance of reality. The news of their coming was brought to my Lord of Troy as he sat at the high table. The page who brought the news had been listening to the Welshman filling the guard-room with sound and fury. “These fellows say, my lord, that Swartz is dead, and five more with him, and that they were beaten by one man.” My lord was cracking nuts, and picking them out of their shells with precise indifference. “Who are the men, Ralph?” It was De Lisle who asked the question. “Morgan the Welshman, Part, and Simonsby, and fat Horner, and one more.” De Lisle laughed, and nodded at Roger Bland. “I could have named the men, my lord; spunkless rogues all of them. Morgan would lie the hoofs off Satan.” My Lord of Troy went on cracking nuts. “Ralph.” “My lord?” “Bring the men in here, all of them, and let them line up in front of my table.” He was obeyed. The five bold “blades” found themselves standing in a row, while Roger Bland ate his nuts, and looked at them as though they were cattle to be judged. He did not speak, and the five tried not to fidget. “Question these fellows for me, Sir Fulk de Lisle.” “My lord, with pleasure.” And Fulk de Lisle thrust the bright blade of truth into the belly of their invention. “So you ran away, my friends?” They denied it, Morgan the Welshman leading the chorus. “Then, how is it that you are here?” Roger Bland smiled like a cynical old priest listening to a confession. “A very presentable question, sir. Let me amplify it. You found people at Woodmere, Morgan?” The Welshman tried to get his imagination into its stride, but my lord would not let him gallop.