“Nor is this all,” replied the prelate, well pleased to note the growing anger of the sovereign, “nor is this all the wrong. The same bold man, who did you this affront, an’ you look not the sharper, will light a blaze in England that shall consume right speedily your royal crown itself. He marches to and fro, with troops of horse, and bands of armed footmen, stirring the Saxon churls against the gentle blood of Normandy, nay, seeking even to gain entrance into your garrisons and castles.” “Do I hear right,” shouted the fiery prince, striking his hand upon the board with such fierce vehemence, that every flask and tankard rang. “Do I hear right--and is it but a dream that I am England’s king? What! _one_ base vassal; _one_ who has fattened on the bread of our ill-wasted charity; _one_ beggar, who first came to our court with all his fortunes on his back, bestriding a galled, spavined jade; _one_ wretch like this insult at once a line of sovereign princes--trample a realm beneath his feet--and go unpunished and scathe-free? What! was there not one man, one only, of the hordes of recreant knights who feast around my board, to free his monarch from a shaveling who dishonors and defies him? Break off the feast--break off, I say! no time for revelry and wine!--To council, lords, to council! We must indeed bestir us, an’ we would hold the crown our grandsire won, not for himself alone, nor for his race--who, by God’s grace, will wear it, spite priest, cardinal, or pope--but for the gentle blood of Norman chivalry!” Rising at once, he led the way to council; and, with wild haste and disarray, the company dispersed. But as the hall grew thin, four knights remained behind in close converse--so deep, so earnest, that they were left alone, when all the rest, ladies, and cavaliers, and chamberlains, and pages, had departed, and the vast gallery, which had so lately rung with every various sound of human merriment, was silent as the grave. There was a strange and almost awful contrast between the strong and stately forms of the four barons--their deep and energetic whispers, the fiery glances of their angry eyes, the fierce gesticulations of their muscular and well-turned limbs--and the deserted splendors of that royal hall: the vacant throne, the long array of seats; the gorgeous plate, flagons, and cups, and urns of gold and marquetry; the lights still glowing, as it were, in mockery over the empty board; the wine unpoured--the harps untouched and voiceless. “Be it so--be it so!” exclaimed, in louder tones than they had used before, one, the most striking in appearance of the group; “be it so--let us swear! Richard le Breton, Hugues de Morville, William de Traci--even as I shall swear, swear ye--by God, and by our trusty blades, and by our Norman honor!” “We will,” cried all, “we swear! we be not recreant, nor craven, as our good swords shall witness!”