Captain Griffith--a man in the full vigor of his age, robust and corpulent, and with hair and beard of a reddish blonde--rode at the head of his archers, the élites of his troop. Although in full armor, he had hung his casque on the pommel of his saddle, and now wore on his head a bonnet of fox-skin. Boldness, incontinence and a sort of cruel joviality stood out from the features of the Englishman that wore a rubicund tint from the potations and meats that he was in the habit of swallowing in enormous quantities. The morning air having sharpened his appetite, if ever it can be said to have been satisfied, the bastard of Norfolk was picking a ham, and from time to time lovingly resorted to a wine pouch that also hung from the pommel of his saddle. At his side rode his lieutenant, whom with impious mockery he styled his "Chaplain." Guilty of all the crimes on the calendar, Captain Griffith took, like Rolf the Norman pirate before him, a diabolical delight in all manner of sacrilege. The Chaplain, a hulky scamp with a toper's face and as vigorous of bone as his Captain, wore under his iron coat of mail a monk's gown and on his head a steel helmet. "My son," said he to the bastard of Norfolk, "without meaning to offend you, I shall have to call your attention to the fact that this is the third time you put your wine pouch to your mouth without offering your brother in Beelzebub to quench his thirst." "What have you eaten, Chaplain, to make you so thirsty?" "By the devil! I have been eating with my eyes the ham that you have been devouring with your teeth." "Why, then, quench your thirst by seeing me drink! Your health, friend!" "Sacrilege! To refuse wine to a thirsty chaplain! I would prefer, for the sake of your salvation, to see you again journey a whole day on a stretch in a chariot drawn by St. Patrick, the abbot, and his 'chapter.'" "Pshaw!" hissed Griffith; "there were relays." "True, several relays, each of twelve monks, and they were successively hitched. It was in your favor." "There, devil's Chaplain, drink! Drink to my amorous exploits!" After having kept for a seemingly interminable time his lips glued to the orifice of the pouch that the Captain had passed over to him, the Chaplain detached them for a moment, not so much for the purpose of answering his worthy chief as for the purpose of taking breath. Breathing heavily, he asked: "What amorous exploits? Sacred or profane ones?" and then proceeded to quaff.