“And I don’t care for poetry anyhow,” he gruffly said, “so finish without any more of it if you can.”

“I will then.  You saw those two mugs offered to the king?”

“Both made of common horn, yes.”

“They both came from my bar.  One was full of wine, but the other held water.”

“Then when my sack comes I would prefer it without the water,” Sir Thomas replied, amid a chorus of laughter.

“You exercise your wit upon me, my lord,” replied the landlord with some asperity, “but I have not the means wherewith to retort.  I am a man of business, not a Court fool.”  Here he paused, astonished at his own trepidity, and also in fear lest his aristocratic customers should be offended.  As he stopped his virtuous indignation passed away, and when he resumed again it was in a tone at once apologetic and placid.

“The water,” he continued, “was offered by the good councillors, but Gorboduc took the poison, and now he has drunk it off, so——­”

“Look at your prisoner,” interrupted Sir Nicholas, “or very soon you will not have one to look after.”

Edmund had, in fact, been thrown down just over his knife, and very soon finding this out he had, by dint of considerable trouble, succeeded in cutting the cord which bound his wrists, and was busily engaged in freeing his legs by a similar process when he unfortunately attracted the attention of the Queen’s Councillor.

No time was lost in securing him afresh.  In spite of his strenuous efforts he was quickly overpowered, and after all his labour he only found himself more hopelessly a prisoner than he had been before.

“Why, the fellow must be bewitched,” exclaimed Sir George, “I never saw his like before.  Take him away before he does us any injury.  Take him away, we don’t want him here.”

“He is safe enough now, my lord.”

“Take him away, I say,” repeated the baron.  “We want him here no longer.  Do you hear me, sirrah!  Take him away I say, and lock him up in safety,” and amid the oft-continued reiteration of the baron’s order, Edmund Wynne was carried below and consigned to the care of the ostler until such time as the gaol officials could be conveniently communicated with.

CHAPTER XII.

A confession of love.

  It was my fortune, common to that age,
    To love a lady fair, of great degree,
  The which was born of noble parentage. 
    And set in highest seat of dignity.

  Spenser.

The sun was declining, after a gorgeous display of its fiery hues; gilding with a translucent light the grey walls of Haddon, and casting weird shadows on the closely-cropped bowling green, when two figures emerged from the shades of the neighbouring wood and passed into the meadow which lies below the Hall.

Sir George Vernon had not yet returned from London; indeed, nothing but a note from Margaret’s lover had given them any information about the two travellers since they had departed, six days ago, and although news of them was now considered overdue, yet, in those days of bad roads and slow travelling, communications from distant places were never, or seldom at best, rapidly transmitted, and, bearing this in mind, no concern was felt on that account.