“By St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, amazed at having been trespassed on at such a moment, “why not at once tell me what it is?” “By the head of St. Anthony!” answered the knight very boldly, as he advanced, “it concerns not only you, but Prince Louis, and all the lords present. I have seen Sir William de Collingham and Master Icingla disguised as yeomen in an ale-house close by the palace-gate.” “Collingham and Icingla?” said De Moreville, much surprised. “By the head of St. Anthony, my lord, it is even so--it is true,” replied the knight, greatly elated at the thought of being the bearer of such intelligence; “it is as true as that I live by bread, and you may have them to dine with you if you please.” De Moreville, in spite of his bad humour, laughed grimly. “In truth,” said he, “I should like it much. Wherefore hasten to secure them; but take power enough with you to be in no danger of failing, for they are dangerous desperadoes, as their actions and words prove.” “Trust me,” said Sir Anthony, with evident confidence in himself that he would be prudent in action. “May I never again taste joy if I fail in the enterprise!” “Wherefore not say ale and wine at once?” replied Moreville, jocularly; “I should then feel assured of your doing your very utmost.” Sir Anthony did not answer, but, having selected a dozen stalwart men from De Moreville’s train, the knight made for the ale-house. “Follow me at a distance,” said he to the men, “and as soon as you perceive me make a sign to arrest the persons I am in search of, lay hands on them, and take care they do not, on any account, escape.” So saying, Sir Anthony again entered the ale-house, ascended the stairs, and, followed by his myrmidons, entered the chamber where he had left Collingham and Oliver Icingla. He was prepared to give the sign which was to make them prisoners, and was already anticipating the success of the enterprise which, according to his calculations, was to redeem him from the disgrace which he had incurred by allowing Chas-Chateil to be entered by a band of outlaws, when his countenance fell and he tossed his arms on high. “By the head of St. Anthony,” said he, wildly, and with mortification in his countenance, “the birds have flown!” “_Yes_,” answered a sepulchral voice, which seemed to come from the midst of the band, “_they are flown; for in vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird_.” Sir Anthony Waledger started, shivered, and looked round and round in great alarm, and several of his followers crossed themselves; and as they did so, the voice repeated in still more mysterious accents-- “_In vain is the net spread in the sight of any bird._” Sir Anthony called on his favourite saints to protect him; and his men began to back confusedly out of the chamber, every one of them with a heart beating faster and louder than his neighbour’s. As they passed out and questioned the landlady, the good dame laughed in her sleeve.