The Norman baron was occupied with his last meal for the day--that cold collation, generally taken at nine o’clock, and known as “liverie.” But it was evident he was merely going through a form, and that he could not taste the viands. In fact, De Moreville was suffering severely from gout--the result of indulgence in good cheer during his brief stay in the capital--and his temper, never celestial, was so severely tried by pain and twitches, that, at times, he was inclined to mutter imprecations the reverse of complimentary on king, barons, citizens, the laws of Edward the Confessor, even the Great Charter itself. “What ho, young kinsman!” said he, recovering himself after a moment, and speaking in a bantering tone; “I hardly deemed myself such a favourite of Fortune as that she should send you under the roof of Chas-Chateil; but I rejoice to see you. Our last meeting was unlucky in this, that we parted without your fully understanding me. By St. Moden, you shall now comprehend my meaning!” “My lord,” replied Oliver, speaking calmly, though his blood boiled with indignation at the tone in which he was addressed, “I thank you for welcoming me to the castle which is the inheritance of my mother; albeit I cannot help confessing that it would have been more pleasing to come under different circumstances. However, of that anon. Meantime, vouchsafe to inform me for what reason I have been hunted like a robber by your men-at-arms, and dragged here forcibly against my will. I demand to know.” De Moreville laughed mockingly, and raised his eyes to the roof of the chamber, whereupon were carved some grotesque figures, each of which might be intended to represent that important bird the Moreville eagle. “On my faith!” answered he at length, “I marvel much that any youth with the Moreville blood in his veins can be such a dullard as to ask such a question. But an answer you shall have. You were seized and brought hither because you were engaged in attempts at variance with the laws of the land and the authority of the barons, the conservators of the charter signed at Runnymede.” “Answer me two questions,” said Oliver, sternly. “Am I a prisoner? and if so, is my life aimed at?” “Everything depends on yourself. Meanwhile, you have letters from Queen Isabel to King John. Hand them to me.” “You do me great injustice,” said Oliver, “in supposing it possible that, if intrusted with letters, I should render them to any but the person for whose hand they were intended.” “Is that your answer?” fiercely demanded De Moreville. “It is my answer,” retorted Oliver, with equal heat; “and it is an answer more courteous than you deserve.”