Chapter 22: A Medieval Tyrant. Drogo did not venture to bring in his prisoners by the light of day, for although he had collected together a large flock of black sheep, yet did he not dare openly to consign a preaching friar to those dungeons of his. The men he had with him on the spot were certain lewd fellows of the baser sort, distinguished even in Walderne Castle for their wickedness; yet even they had their superstitions, and imagined it would bring bad luck to arrest the ecclesiastic, travelling in the garb of his order. But Drogo’s will was law, and they obeyed. They detained the prisoners in an outlying farmhouse until dark, then thrusting a labourer’s smock over Martin’s robe, led their prisoners to the castle. Prisoners were no novelty there, many of these free lances were born in camp, and had the inherited habits of generations of robbers, so that it was to them a second nature to mutilate, imprison, and torture, and slay. They looked upon burghers and peasants as butchers do on sheep, or rather they looked upon them as beings made that warriors might wring their hidden hoards from them, by torture and violence, or even in default of the gold hang them for amusement, or the like. They had about as much sympathy for these men of peace as the pike for the roach—they only thought them excellent eating. As for the knight—he was a knight, and must be treated as such, although an enemy. As for the burgher—well, we have discussed the case. As for the friar—they did not like to meddle with the Church. They dreaded excommunication, men of Belial though they were. The knight was confined in a chamber high up in the tower, from whence he could see: The forest dark and gloomy, And under poetic inspiration compose odes upon liberty. The burgher and friar were taken downstairs to gloomy dungeons, adjacent to each other, where they were left to solitude and silence. Solitary confinement! it has driven many men mad: to be the inmate of a narrow cell, without a ray of light, groping in one corner for a rotten bed of straw, groping in the other for a water jug and loaf of black bread, feeling unclean insects and reptiles struggle beneath one’s feet: oh, horrible! And such was our Martin’s fate. But he was not alone, his God was with him, as with Daniel in the lion’s den, and he never for one moment gave way to despair. He accepted the trial as best he might, and bore the chilling atmosphere and scanty fare like a hero. Yet he was a prisoner in the castle of his fathers. And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain. The very thought that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught was in itself sufficiently painful. “Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” and Martin left it.