“Young man,” said the Norman baron grimly, and with frowning brow, “I would fain have so instructed you to act your part within these walls that your residence at the king’s court might have proved to your own advantage, and for the welfare of others; but my friendly intent has been baffled by your heat and unreasonable pride. One question, however, on the subject ere we part. You have rejected my counsel. May I ask if, under the influence of temptation or threats, you are capable of betraying it?” “My lord, may God and the saints forbid!” answered Oliver hastily. “Whatever was spoken on the subject was spoken in confidence, and the brave man does not betray the guest seated at his board, and under the rose on his own roof-tree. I pledge my word--I swear to you. But it needs not. You have the honour of an Icingla on which to rely, and the honour of an Icingla is of more worth, in such a case, than assurances or oaths. I have said.” “It is well,” said De Moreville, who, in spite of his efforts to appear calmly indifferent, could not conceal the relief which he experienced as he listened. “But deem not,” added he, “that I fear aught for myself, or that any breach of confidence on your part could pass unpunished. Breathe within these walls but one word of what I spake with your welfare in view, and, by St. Moden, your doom is fixed!” As De Moreville spoke the massive gates were thrown open, and the baron and the squire rode into the courtyard, and, dismounting, surrendered their steeds to the attendants. “Follow me,” said De Moreville, somewhat contemptuously, “and I will conduct you to the king’s presence. I trust,” added he, with a smile of peculiar significance, “that you will find his company more to your taste than mine. Nay, blanch not. Arthur of Brittany found him a kind uncle, and Arthur’s sister, Eleanor the Fair, who pines as a captive in Bristol Castle, has reason to bless his name.” Oliver shuddered at De Moreville’s tone and manner; and, as the baron’s words sank instantly and deeply into his heart, visions of the dungeon and the gallows rose before his imagination. Not more gloomy could have been his presentiments had some magician, supposed capable of foretelling the future, whispered in his ear the warning inscribed by the Florentine poet over the portals of the infernal regions, “Leave all hope behind.” But he had now gone too far either to draw back or hesitate; and with a heart as sad as if he had been entering the fabled hall of Eblis, he followed his Norman kinsman till he found himself within the walls which were subsequently so richly adorned by the artists who flourished under the patronage of Henry of Winchester and Eleanor of Provence with the story of Antiochus, but which, in the days of John, were less tastefully decorated.