“Hush, Mary!” commanded Bertrade. “Thou know not what thou sayest. I would not wipe my feet upon him, I care naught whatever for him, and then—it has been three weeks since he rode out from Stutevill and no word hath he sent.” “Oh, ho,” cried the little plague, “so there lies the wind? My Lady would not wipe her feet upon him, but she be sore vexed that he has sent her no word. Mon Dieu, but thou hast strange notions, Bertrade.” “I will not talk with you, Mary,” cried Bertrade, stamping her sandaled foot, and with a toss of her pretty head she turned abruptly toward the castle. In a small chamber in the castle of Colfax two men sat at opposite sides of a little table. The one, Peter of Colfax, was short and very stout. His red, bloated face, bleary eyes and bulbous nose bespoke the manner of his life; while his thick lips, the lower hanging large and flabby over his receding chin, indicated the base passions to which his life had been given. His companion was a little, grim, gray man but his suit of armor and closed helm gave no hint to his host of whom his guest might be. It was the little armored man who was speaking. “Is it not enough that I offer to aid you, Sir Peter,” he said, “that you must have my reasons? Let it go that my hate of Leicester be the passion which moves me. Thou failed in thy attempt to capture the maiden; give me ten knights and I will bring her to you.” “How knowest thou she rides out tomorrow for her father’s castle?” asked Peter of Colfax. “That again be no concern of thine, my friend, but I do know it, and, if thou wouldst have her, be quick, for we should ride out tonight that we may take our positions by the highway in ample time tomorrow.” Still Peter of Colfax hesitated, he feared this might be a ruse of Leicester’s to catch him in some trap. He did not know his guest—the fellow might want the girl for himself and be taking this method of obtaining the necessary assistance to capture her. “Come,” said the little, armored man irritably. “I cannot bide here forever. Make up thy mind; it be nothing to me other than my revenge, and if thou wilt not do it, I shall hire the necessary ruffians and then not even thou shalt see Bertrade de Montfort more.” This last threat decided the Baron. “It is agreed,” he said. “The men shall ride out with you in half an hour. Wait below in the courtyard.” When the little man had left the apartment, Peter of Colfax summoned his squire whom he had send to him at once one of his faithful henchmen. “Guy,” said Peter of Colfax, as the man entered, “ye made a rare fizzle of a piece of business some weeks ago. Ye wot of which I speak?” “Yes, My Lord.” “It chances that on the morrow ye may have opportunity to retrieve thy blunder. Ride out with ten men where the stranger who waits in the courtyard below shall lead ye, and come not back without that which ye lost to a handful of men before. You understand?” “Yes, My Lord!”