His commands were obeyed; and upon entering that Gothic apartment, hung with many spoils won by his own valor and that of his father, he found a flagon of wine on a massive oaken table, and the two Saxon captives under the guard of four of his dependants. Front-de-Boeuf took a long draught of wine and then addressed his prisoners, for the imperfect light prevented his perceiving that the more important of them had escaped. "Gallants of England," said Front-de-Boeuf, "how relish ye your entertainment at Torquilstone? Faith and Saint Dennis, an ye pay not a rich ransom, I will hang ye up by the feet from the iron bars of these windows till the kites and hooded crows have made skeletons of you! Speak out, ye Saxon dogs, what bid ye for your worthless lives? What say you, you of Rotherwood?" "Not a [v]doit I," answered poor Wamba, "and for hanging up by the feet, my brain has been topsy-turvy ever since the [v]biggin was bound first around my head; so turning me upside down may peradventure restore it again." "Hah!" cried Front-de-Boeuf, "what have we here?" And with the back of his hand he struck Cedric's cap from the head of the jester, and throwing open his collar, discovered the fatal badge of servitude, the silver collar round his neck. "Giles--Clement--dogs and varlets!" called the furious Norman, "what villain have you brought me here?" "I think I can tell you," said De Bracy, who just entered the apartment. "This is Cedric's clown." "Go," ordered Front-de-Boeuf; "fetch me the right Cedric hither, and I pardon your error for once--the rather that you but mistook a fool for a Saxon [v]franklin." "Ay, but," said Wamba, "your chivalrous excellency will find there are more fools than franklins among us." "What means this knave?" said Front-de-Boeuf, looking toward his followers, who, lingering and loath, faltered forth their belief that if this were not Cedric who was there in presence, they knew not what was become of him. "Heavens!" exclaimed De Bracy. "He must have escaped in the monk's garments!" "Fiends!" echoed Front-de-Boeuf. "It was then the boar of Rotherwood whom I ushered to the postern and dismissed with my own hands! And thou," he said to Wamba, "whose folly could over-reach the wisdom of idiots yet more gross than thyself. I will give thee holy orders, I will shave thy crown for thee! Here, let them tear the scalp from his head and pitch him headlong from the battlements. Thy trade is to jest: canst thou jest now?" "You deal with me better than your word, noble knight," whimpered forth poor Wamba, whose habits of [v]buffoonery were not to be overcome even by the immediate prospect of death; "if you give me the red cap you propose, out of a simple monk you will make a [v]cardinal."