"An it be administered with your usual skill and caution, Sir James," returned the monk, elevating a phial filled with the liquid between his squinting eyes and the light of the fire, "'twill bring no more harm than so much _aqua pura_. But, by my church! 'tis beside my understanding why you must observe all of these dark ceremonies. Let the young knight but read the King's warrant in his slop pouch, an he were a long-eared ass not to embrace our cause." "Have I not already said, my stupid friend, that he would at once charge us with substitution and false writing? Think you not that the young noble hath heard a many an evil tale of this tavern along the way? Marry, an he had not, all our trouble and precaution to shield the young prince from discovery and harm would have been but of slight avail. But only once again, good friar, need this phantom inn disappear, and then 'twill serve as a blazing torch to light the start of our movement southward." "Pity 'tis that the young prince died," observed the monk, giving the phial into Tyrrell's hand and standing with his broad back to the blaze. "And just at the point, too, when you had gathered a sufficient power to hurl effectively against Henry. So fire shall consume our refuge, you say? Well, Sir James, _ab igne ignem_, say I." "Yea, and I. But regarding the young prince, regret not that which is beyond mending. In truth, Friar Diomed, I like this young Earl of Warwick mightily. He's a right goodly youth to look upon, and brave--aye, as fearless as a lion cub. Nay--let us not regret, but rather return thanks to a generous God for having thus dropped down upon us a proper and legal substitute." "An you'll be good enough to bid Zenas to bring out the flagons, Sir James, I'll e'en now down a measure or twain to the health of the new. Which is more to my liking, by my Faith, than the uplifting of mere dry thanks. _Ad majorem Dei gloriam!_ 'Twill be a good hour ere de Claverlok and his band return, and I am grievously athirst and, ah-ha-ha, ho-e-e, sleepy." "Then why not call your drink night-cup and betake yourself to your couch? 'Tis not necessary that you should remain abroad to await their coming. Zenas, the flagon of wine," Tyrrell then called. "Drink, and to your rest, my good friar. Yea--the blessed pair of you." Whereupon, with a loud smacking of his lips, the rotund friar introduced his red and bulbous nose within his tipped cup and made for his couch. Zenas followed him, leaving Tyrrell to keep solitary vigil by the side of the crackling fire, and all unaware of the little comedy which, at that very moment, was being enacted above his head. * * * * *