The same day, a little before nightfall, Baron Vigneau strode across the greensward to the spot where his own followers were bivouacking beneath some huge beech trees. "Pierre," said he, calling to a stalwart and villainous-looking soldier, who was engaged in a noisy chaffering with some comrades, "I have a dainty bit of work for you, Pierre. Just such a commission as you love next best to swilling old Saxon ale." "What is it your lordship has in the wind now? It has some connection with wine or wenches, I stake my rosary on it." "Thou had better throw thy rosary into the first ditch thou comes across; for if thou tell thy beads in proportion to thy sins, thou can find no time for anything else; and if thou do penance for half thy sins, and be d----d for the other half, why, marry, thou might as well be d----d for the whole. But I warrant _that_ the end of thee in any case, villain; so there's an end on't. But I want none of thy scurvy impudence, mark me! I want thy ears, and the best discretion thou hast. I have a delicate mission for thee to perform--a mission well suited to thy tender and susceptible disposition." "Many thanks for your lordship's highly valued appreciation. But truly, when I quit my sins I'll have to quit your service; for how a saint will manage the devil's business I cannot tell. Indifferently well, I fancy." "Silence, sirrah, or I'll crop thy ears! Listen to me! Down at the monastery there is a Saxon wench--a gem of the first water. None of your bare-legged slotch-puddles, with a figure as shapely as an ill-made wine-butt. She is a genuine offshoot of the Saxon nobility, I am told. I want thee to do a little delicate negotiation for me, such as thou art justly famous for. If thou do it well, thou shalt rise even higher in my esteem." "Ah, I see; a delicate mission truly!" "Stop the wagging of thy tongue, knave, and take heed to what I say. This is not the daughter of a villainous churl, bred and reared on a midden, take note. So I will have this business done accordingly." "Ah, I comprehend it all. This is potter's ware, that must not be soiled in transit. All damage and defacement must be reserved for your respectable self." "Just so! Don't poke thy villainous phiz--which reminds me of a keg of wine gone sour--beneath her hood for kisses on thy own account. I'll have none of it! Just do thine errand as a Christian should, and----" "Christian, forsooth, I think you said just now, Baron?"