'That is not a question for me to answer, my lord.' 'Doubtless thou didst lose her in battle against thy sovereign.' 'She was in Redware stable last night, my lord.' 'Which of you, knaves, stole the gentleman's mare?' cried the marquis.--'But, Mr. Heywood, there can be no theft upon a rebel. He is by nature an outlaw, and his life and goods forfeit to the king.' 'He will hardly yield the point, my lord. So long as Might, the sword, is in the hand of Right, the--' 'Of Right, the roundhead, I suppose you mean,' interrupted the marquis. 'Who carried off Mr. Heywood's mare?' he repeated, rising, and looking abroad on the crowd. 'Tom Fool,' answered a voice from the obscure distance. A buzz of suppressed laughter followed, which as instantly ceased, for the marquis looked angrily around. 'Stand forth, Tom Fool,' he said. Through the crowd came Tom, and stood before the dais, looking frightened and sheepish. 'Sure I am, Tom, thou didst never go to steal a mare of thine own notion: who went with thee?' said the marquis. 'Mr. Scudamore, my lord,' answered Tom. 'Ha, Rowland! Art thou there?' cried his lordship. 'I gave him fair warning two years ago, my lord, and the king wants horses,' said Scudamore cunningly. 'Rowland, I like not such warfare. Yet can the roundheads say nought against it, who would filch kingdom from king and church from bishops,' said the marquis, turning again to Heywood. 'As they from the pope, my lord,' rejoined Richard. 'True,' answered the marquis; 'but the bishops are the fairer thieves, and may one day be brought to reason and restitution.' 'As I trust your lordship will in respect of my mare.' 'Nay, that can hardly be. She shall to Gloucester to the king. I would not have sent to Redware to fetch her, but finding thee and her in my house at midnight, it would be plain treason to set such enemies at liberty. What! hast thou fought against his majesty? Thou art scored like an old buckler!' Richard had started on his adventure very thinly clad, for he had expected to find all possible freedom of muscle necessary, and indeed could not in his buff coat have entered the castle. In the scuffle at the gate, his garment had been torn open, and the eye of the marquis had fallen on the scar of a great wound on his chest, barely healed. 'What age art thou?' he went on, finding Richard made no answer. 'One and twenty, my lord--almost.' 'And what wilt thou be by the time thou art one and thirty, an' I'll let thee go,' said the marquis thoughtfully. 'Dust and ashes, my lord, most likely. Faith, I care not.' As he spoke he glanced at Dorothy, but she was looking on the ground.