Solitary confinement! it has driven many men mad:  to be the inmate of a narrow cell, without a ray of light, groping in one corner for a rotten bed of straw, groping in the other for a water jug and loaf of black bread, feeling unclean insects and reptiles struggle beneath one’s feet:  oh, horrible!

And such was our Martin’s fate.

But he was not alone, his God was with him, as with Daniel in the lion’s den, and he never for one moment gave way to despair.  He accepted the trial as best he might, and bore the chilling atmosphere and scanty fare like a hero.  Yet he was a prisoner in the castle of his fathers.

And the unjust accusation of Drogo gave him deep pain.  The very thought that his hand actually had administered the fatal draught was in itself sufficiently painful.

“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,” and Martin left it.

The poor burgher in the next cell, groaning in spirit, needs far more compassion.  He was Mayor of Hamelsham, and great in the wool trade.  He had at home a bustling, active wife, mighty at the spindle and loom.  He had two sons, one of twelve, one of five; three daughters, one almost marriageable; he had six apprentices and twelve workmen carding wool; he had the town business to discharge; he sat upon the bench in the town hall and administered justice to petty offenders.  And here was he, torn from all this, and consigned to a dungeon in the hold of a fierce marauding young “noble.”

To the knight above Drogo paid his first visit on the following day, and bowed low before Ralph of Herstmonceux.

“The fortune of war has made thee my captive, but knightly fare and honourable treatment are awaiting thee, until the day when it pleases thee to redeem thyself, and deprive us of the light of thy presence.”

“Thanks!  For one whose lessons in chivalry were so abruptly broken off, thou hast learnt thy language well.  But just now it would be more to the point if thou wilt tell me what it will cost me to get out of thy den.”

Drogo winced at the allusion to his expulsion from Kenilworth, and charged fifty marks the more.

“We fix thy ransom at a hundred marks {29}.”

“Why, it is a king’s ransom!”

“And thou art fit to be a king.”

“And what if I cannot pay it?”

“We shall feel it our unpleasant duty to hand thee over to the royal justice, as one notoriously in league with the rebel barons.”

“May I send a messenger to my castle?”

“At once.  I will place my household at thy disposal.”

“And the friar and the mayor; does my ransom include their freedom?”

“By no means:  every tub must stand on its own bottom.”

“But they were my companions, travelling as it were, not being fighting men, under my protection.”

“Perhaps it would expedite matters if thou wouldst inform me on what errand ye were all bent?”