The sun was pouring through the barred window when he was awoken by the entrance of a gigantic figure bearing food and drink. He recognized him as one of the scurvy knaves who had dined at the bottom of the room the night before--a vast, beetle-browed fellow with a squint, a mop of red hair, and a genius for silence. To Agravaine's attempts to engage him in conversation he replied only with grunts, and in a short time left the room, closing and locking the door behind him. He was succeeded at dusk by another of about the same size and ugliness, and with even less conversational _elan_. This one did not even grunt. Small-talk, it seemed, was not an art cultivated in any great measure by the lower orders in the employment of Earl Dorm. The next day passed without incident. In the morning the strabismic plug-ugly with the red hair brought him food and drink, while in the evening the non-grunter did the honours. It was a peaceful life, but tending towards monotony, and Agravaine was soon in the frame of mind which welcomes any break in the daily round. He was fortunate enough to get it. He had composed himself for sleep that night, and was just dropping comfortably off, when from the other side of the door he heard the sound of angry voices. It was enough to arouse him. On the previous night silence had reigned. Evidently something out of the ordinary was taking place. He listened intently and distinguished words. 'Who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?' 'Who was it thou didst see me coming down the road with?' 'Aye, who was it I did see thee coming down the road with?' 'Who dost thou think thou art?' 'Who do I think that I am?' 'Aye, who dost thou think thou art?' Agravaine could make nothing of it. As a matter of fact, he was hearing the first genuine cross-talk that had ever occurred in those dim, pre-music-hall days. In years to come dialogue on these lines was to be popular throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain. But till then it had been unknown. The voices grew angrier. To an initiated listener it would have been plain that in a short while words would be found inadequate and the dagger, that medieval forerunner of the slap-stick, brought into play. But to Agravaine, all inexperienced, it came as a surprise when suddenly with a muffled thud two bodies fell against the door. There was a scuffling noise, some groans, and then silence. And then with amazement he heard the bolt shoot back and a key grate in the keyhole. The door swung open. It was dark outside, but Agravaine could distinguish a female form, and, beyond, a shapeless mass which he took correctly to be the remains of the two plug-uglies. 'It is I, Yvonne,' said a voice. 'What is it? What has been happening?' 'It was I. I set them against each other. They both loved one of the kitchen-maids. I made them jealous. I told Walt privily that she had favoured Dickon, and Dickon privily that she loved Walt. And now--'