"Thou hast come to dictate terms, not to supplicate them, Saxon. Dost thou think it probable I shall tolerate a petty Saxon chieftain holding sway close to my doors? or harbour on my lands a brood of villeins who will render the service of fear to me and that of fealty to the Saxon near, so that in any pinch they will treacherously fail me? Thou hast a low estimate of my wisdom, truly. But listen once for all, Saxon; if there be not immediate surrender I will hunt you from your holes in the hills, as I have already said, within a month, and few will escape me--mark that!" "Father," said Alice, "you do this noble Saxon grievous wrong in rejecting so rudely his amicable overtures. You may surely mingle mercy with your designs. I myself will be bond, these Saxons will reciprocate any acts of generosity done to them. Besides, consider this: you saw the forms of armed men at the door just now. They have stayed their hand when it was at the throat of their victims, and they may do so again." "Tush! tush! you speak like a school-girl. These boorish Saxons will count mercy as weakness; so no more of it." "Many thanks, lady," interposed Oswald. "Gentle means are strongest when we deal with human beings, whether they be gentle or simple. But adieu! If my mission fails, the responsibility rests not with me, for I have now offered peace--a peace which is abject in its terms." So saying, he turned and struck the oaken door with the pommel of his sword, which on the instant sprung open and as quickly-closed behind him, whilst the massive bolt was shot from the outside. The Count sprang to the door, and tried to force it open, but to no purpose. "Jules! Jules!" roared he. "What ho there! Treachery!" But the only response he received to his frantic cries was the fragment of a rollicking song and chorus, trolled more lustily than musically by rough voices in the distant kitchen, the substance of which ran something like the following:-- "Old Bacchus was a merry dog, And kept good company; He loved good wine and a jovial song, So his days sped merrily. _Chorus._--Ho, comrades all, we'll drink and sing, So pass the bowl along. If a better cask the morrow bring, We'll greet it with a song." "What ho there, you drunken brutes! What ho, Jules!" shouted the Count, frantic with rage. But again the response was in a similar strain:-- "We're freemen all, but have our liege, For William is our lord; We've wine and ale and venison To crown our festive board. _Chorus._--Ho, comrades, all," etc. "What ho there!" roared the Count, more lustily than ever, and furiously beating the door with an oaken footstool. But all in vain, the song ran its course oblivious of all beside, and with, if possible, an increase in its roystering loudness:--