The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far more compassion. He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool trade. He had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the spindle and loom. He had two sons, one of twelve, one of five; three daughters, one almost marriageable; he had six apprentices and twelve workmen carding wool; he had the town business to discharge; he sat upon the bench in the town hall and administered justice to petty offenders. And here was he, torn from all this, and consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce marauding young “noble.” To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following day, and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux. “The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it pleases thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy presence.” “Thanks! For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken off, thou hast learnt thy language well. But just now it would be more to the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get out of thy den.” Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and charged fifty marks the more. “We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {29}.” “Why, it is a king’s ransom!” “And thou art fit to be a king.” “And what if I cannot pay it?” “We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the royal justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons.” “May I send a messenger to my castle?” “At once. I will place my household at thy disposal.” “And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their freedom?” “By no means: every tub must stand on its own bottom.” “But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being fighting men, under my protection.” “Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on what errand ye were all bent?” Ralph was silent, and Drogo departed with the same ceremonious politeness, laughing at it in his sleeve. “Now for the burgher,” said he. A light shone in the dark prison beneath, and the mayor looked into the face of his fierce young captor. “What brought thee into my woods, fat beast?” “I knew not they were thine, or I had perchance not intruded. Now tell me, lord, at what price I may redeem my error, for I have a wife and children, to say nothing of apprentices and workmen, who long sore for me!” “‘When the cat’s away the mice will play.’ “They will get on merrily without thee. One question thou must answer before we let thee go: On what business came ye hither?” The mayor hesitated. “S’death, dost keep me waiting? We have a torture chamber close at hand. Shall I summon the torturers? They will fit thy fat thumbs with a handsome screw in a moment.” Poor mayor! Martyrdom was not his vocation, and he owned it.