Scudamore did not answer until he found himself safe on his feet, and by that time he had recovered his good manners. 'This is young Mr. Heywood of Redware,' he said, and moved towards the wicket, leaning on Richard's arm. But the old warder stepped in front, and stood between them and the gate. 'Not a damned roundhead of the pack shall set foot across this door-sill, so long as I hold the gate,' he cried, with a fierce gesture of the right arm. And therewith he set his back to the wicket. 'Tut, tut, Eccles!' returned Scudamore impatiently. 'Good words are worth much, and cost little.' 'If the old dog bark, he gives counsel,' rejoined Eccles, immovable. Heywood was amused, and stood silent, waiting the result. He had no particular wish to enter, and yet would have liked to see what could be seen of the court. 'Where the doorkeeper is a churl, what will folk say of the master of the house?' said Scudamore. 'They may say as they list; it will neither hurt him nor me,' said Eccles. 'Make haste, my good fellow, and let us through,' pleaded Scudamore. 'By Saint George! but my leg is in great pain. I fear the knee-cap is broken, in which case I shall not trouble thee much for a week of months.' As he spoke, he stood leaning on Richard's arm, and behind them stood Lady, still as a horse of bronze. 'I will but drop the portcullis,' said the warder, 'and then I will carry thee to thy room in my arms. But not a cursed roundhead shall enter here, I swear.' 'Let us through at once,' said Scudamore, trying the imperative. 'Not if the earl himself gave the order,' persisted the man. 'Ho! ho! what is that you say? Let the gentlemen through,' cried a voice from somewhere. The warder opened the wicket immediately, stepped inside, and held it open while they entered, nor uttered another word. But as soon as Richard had got Scudamore clear of the threshold, to which he lent not a helping finger, he stepped quietly out again, closed the wicket behind him, and taking Lady by the bridle, led her back over the bridge towards the bowling-green. Scudamore had just time to whisper to Heywood, 'It is my master, the earl himself,' when the voice came again. 'What! wounded, Rowland? How is this? And who have you there?' But that moment Richard heard the sound of his mare's hoofs on the bridge, and leaving Scudamore to answer for them both, bounded back to the wicket, darted through, and called her by name. Instantly she stood stock still, notwithstanding a vicious kick in the ribs from Eccles, not unseen of Heywood. Enraged at the fellow's insolence, he dealt him a sudden blow that stretched him at the mare's feet, vaulted into the saddle, and had reached the outer gate before he had recovered himself. The sleepy porter had just let him through, when the warder's signal to let no one out reached him. Richard turned with a laugh.