"Therefore," said Sir Yvo de Taillebois, "I will pray Sir Foulke d'Oilly to command his vassals, that they release the man Kenric forthwith, nor force me to rescue him by the strong hand." D'Oilly, who, during all these proceedings, to which, however unwilling, he was compelled to listen without resistance, had sat on the settle in the chimney corner, in a lounging attitude, gazing into the ashes of the wood fire, and affecting to hear nothing that was passing, rose to his feet sullenly, shook himself, till every link of his mail clashed and rang, and uttered, in a tone more like the short roar of a disappointed lion than the voice of a man, the one word, "_Lachez!_" Then turning to Sir Yvo, he said-- "And now, sir, I suppose that I, too, like this Saxon cur, about whom there has been so much pother, may go about my lawful business, none hindering me." "So much so, Sir Foulke, that if you will do me the favor to order your horses, I will mount on the instant, and escort you to the boundary of the shire. You, Kenric, tarry here with my harbinger, and get yourself into more fitting guise to return to the castle. Now, master bailiff, in quality of host, can you not find a flask of something choicer than your ale and metheglin? Ha! wine of Anjou! This will wash the cobwebs of the law out of my gullet, rarely. I was nigh choked with them, by St. Agatha! Sir Foulke, I hear your horses stamping at the door. Will it please you, mount? It draws nigh to morning." "I will mount," he replied fiercely, "when I am ready; and so give you short thanks for scanty courtesy." "The less we say, I think, about courtesy, Sir Foulke d'Oilly, the better," said Sir Yvo, sternly; "for courtesy is not, nor ever can be, between us two, until I am certified how my dear friend and comrade in arms, Sir Philip de Morville, came by his death in Sherwood Forest." The baron glared at him fiercely under the rim of his raised avantaille; then dashed the vizor down over his scowling features, that none might read their fell expression; clinched his gauntleted hand, and dashed it against the shield which hung about his neck, in impotent fury. But he spoke no word more, till they parted, without salutation or defiance, on a bare moor, where the three shires of York, Lancaster, and Westmoreland, meet, at the county stone, under the looming mountain masses of Whernside. CHAPTER XXIII. THE TRIAL. _Duke._ What, is Antonio here? _Ant._ Ready, so please your grace. _Duke._ I am sorry for thee. Thou art come to answer A strong adversary, an inhuman wretch. MERCHANT OF VENICE.