“By the bones of St. Moden!” exclaimed De Moreville, with a frowning brow, “I can no longer brook such obstinacy! May I become an Englishman if I bend or break not your proud spirit ere the year is much nearer midsummer!” and he blew a silver whistle that lay at his side, the sound of which instantly brought Ralph Hornmouth and another man-at-arms into the chamber. “Ho, there! Ralph Hornmouth,” said De Moreville, fiercely, “give me the letters which this varlet has about him. Methinks, from the direction his eye took when I mentioned them, he has them in his boots.” Hornmouth and his comrade obeyed; and Oliver, notwithstanding a brave struggle, had the bitter mortification, while prostrated on his back and held down, of seeing the queen’s letter taken from his boot and handed to the Norman baron; but no second letter could be found, for the very excellent reason that no such letter had ever been in existence. Meanwhile, De Moreville perused the epistle slowly, and as he read, his countenance evinced disappointment. It seemed, indeed, that the letter did not contain the kind of information he expected; and he turned to Oliver, who was again on his feet, almost weeping from rage, and regarding his kinsman with angry glances. “You will now inform me,” said he, like a man determined on having an answer by fair or foul means, “whither William de Collingham has gone, and with what intent.” “Dog of a Norman!” exclaimed Oliver, giving way to his fury, “I would not answer such a question to save my body from the bernicles. Villain and oppressor, do your worst; I defy you and your myrmidons.” “I can waste no more time in bandying words,” said De Moreville, significantly. “Conduct this varlet to the blind chamber of the prison-house,” continued he, addressing Hornmouth, “and give him a taste of the brake. The blind chamber has, in its day, brought still worse madmen than he is to their senses, and the brake has proved too much for the endurance of hardier limbs.” Oliver Icingla shuddered. He rapidly recalled to memory the stories he had often heard from men of English race of the atrocious cruelties perpetrated by Norman barons in earlier reigns on their unfortunate prisoners; how one victim was starved to death; how a second was flung into a cellar full of reptiles; how a third was hung up by the thumbs; how a fourth was crippled in a frame which was so constructed that he could not move an inch in any direction; and how a fifth was suspended from a sharp collar round his neck, with his toes just resting on the ground. It was natural enough that Oliver should shudder as the recollection of such things flashed through his brain; and as they did so his blood ran cold, and his heart beat fast and loud. But he was game to the backbone; and De Moreville, who watched him narrowly, could not but marvel that there was not, even for a moment, any appearance of the slightest inclination to show the white feather.