“What is thy purpose, Drogo?” said Martin. “Do ye yield yourselves prisoners?” “On what compulsion?” “Force, the right that rules the world.” “And what pretext for using it?” said Ralph, drawing his sword. “I should advise thee not to touch thy weapon, unless thy skill is proof against an arrow. In a word, Ralph of Herstmonceux, art thou for the king or the barons?” “Thou knowest—the barons.” “And I for the king; no more need be said. Yield to ransom.” “I will not give my sword to thee,” and Ralph flung it into a pond. “And what right hast thou to arrest me?” said the mayor. “Good mayor, hast thou not stirred up thy town of Hamelsham, thy puissant butchers and bakers, to resist the good king and to send aid to the rebellious Earl of Leicester, may the fiends rive him! Wherefore I might, without further parley, hang thee to this beech, which never bore a worthier acorn.” “Yes, hang him for the general amusement,” said several deep voices. “Nay, dead men pay no ransom, and we will make his beer-swilling, beef-eating brother burghers pay a good sum for his fat body. “Thou hast thy choice, mayor. Ransom or rope?” “Seeing I must choose, ransom; but rate me not too high, I am a poor man.” They laughed immoderately. “We have borrowed a hint from the outlaws, and unless thy brethren pay for thee soon, we will send thy worthless body to them in installments, first one ear, then the other, and so on.” “Our Lady help me!” “Brother, be patient. Heaven will help us, since there is no help in man,” said Martin. “And now, Drogo, whom I knew so well of old, and in whom I see little change, what is thy charge against me?” “A very serious one, brother Martin, and one I grieve to bring against such an eloquent preacher of the Gospel, but my conscience compels me.” “Thy conscience!” “Yes, I can afford to keep one as well as thou. Dost thou think thou art the only creature who has a soul to be saved?” “Go on without further blasphemies.” “Well then, I grieve to say that it is my painful duty to arrest thee on a charge of murder.” “Of murder!” cried all three. “Yes, of the murder of his aunt, the late lamented Lady of Walderne.” “Good heavens!” cried the knight and mayor. “Oh heaven and earth, this slander hear!” said Martin. “Do not swear, it misbecomes a friar.” “Thou didst murder her thyself.” “Nay: who gave her the sleeping draught the last night? I have just discovered that it contained poison supplied by the old witch who lived here, and whom I have duly punished by fire. But whose hand, administered it?” Martin turned pale. “I ask,” continued Drogo, “who gave her the draught?” “It was I, but who poisoned it?” “Satan knows best, but thou hast owned it. “I call thee to witness, most valiant knight, and thee, O Mayor of Hamelsham, that you both hear him—_confitentem mum_, as Father Edmund used to say at Kenilworth. “Ah, I have him on the hip. Away with them to Walderne: the deepest dungeon for the poisoner.”