Now you shall witness a striking scene. You are gazing at the castle of Oxford, that stands up grim and square in the midst of its encircling waters. Oxford is already renowned as the abode of quiet scholars and learned men; for “Beauclerc,” who has now gone to his rest, made it an academy and a sanctuary of letters. He it was who built this grim castle, in which to sojourn when he came to Oxford to enjoy the converse of the bookish men who dwelt beneath its shadow. It is, however, no learned concourse of scholars, no peaceful trial of wits, which we are about to witness, but an incident of stern warfare. The castle is undergoing a siege, which has already lasted three months. An iron girdle of armed men forbids entrance or exit. You see, however, no great engines for hurling missiles into the fortress; you perceive no battering-rams; no pent-houses for undermining its walls; no scaling-ladders and towers for assault. Hunger and cold are the weapons of the besiegers; within, starvation and disease are fighting their battle. It is early morning of the vigil of St. Thomas, a cold, gray day, with a sharp frost in the air. In the camp of the besiegers a white flag is raised in token of truce, and presently you see a stalwart knight clad in full armour bestride his charger. Behind him assembles a train of abbots and priests bearing Church banners and crucifixes. Slowly they wend their way over the powdery snow to the edge of the castle moat, and presently the loud blast of a trumpet startles the ear. Now you see on the battlements of the castle a warder appear and inquire the meaning of the summons. “Say to thy mistress that I beseech a parley,” cries the knight, and the warder disappears. There is a pause, and presently on the battlements you see a woman, pale and gaunt, but proud and haughty as angry Juno. You notice her flashing eye, her hard, resolute look, and you know that she will never yield to mortal man. “Why come ye?” she asks in imperious tones, and the Lord Abbot of Reading answers her. He bids her yield the castle, and he promises, in the name of the king, that no harm shall befall her or any that are with her. She shall have honourable escort to the coast, lands and money shall be hers, and no vengeance of any kind shall be wreaked on her adherents. “Gracious lady,” he concludes, “I implore thee to yield and end this cruel war, which is a reproach to Christendom and ruin to the people of England. Thy famishing state is well known, and all hope of escape is gone.” “Who told thee, thou meddling monk, that I thought of escape?” she answers. “Wherefore should I escape? My brother, Earl Robert, is at hand, and ye wot well how the foul usurper was forced to yield to him at Lincoln. The like will happen again here at Oxenford, so let the false recreant begone. I will not throw open my gates nor quit these walls until thy perjured master is in chains, pleading at my feet for the life I have once too often granted him.”