The young scion of the house of Herstmonceux led Martin a few steps down the lane opposite Saint Mary’s Church, until they came to the vaulted doorway of a house of some pretensions.  Its walls were thick, its windows deep set and narrow.  Dull in external appearance, it did not seem to be so within, for sounds of riotous mirth proceeded from many a window left open for admittance of air.  The great door was shut, but a little wicket was on the latch, and Ralph de Monceux opened it, saying: 

“Come and do me the honour of a short visit, and give me the latest news from dear old Sussex.”

“What place is this?” replied Martin.

“Beef Halt, so called because of the hecatombs of oxen we consume.”

Martin smiled.

“What is the real name?”

“It should be ‘Ape Hall,’ for here we ape men of learning, whereas little is done but drinking, dicing, and fighting.  But you will find our neighbours in the next street have monopolised that title, with yet stronger claims.”

“But what do the outsiders call you?”

“Saint Dymas’ Halt, since we never pay our debts.  But the world calls it Le Oriole {17} Hostel.  A better name just now is ‘Liberty Hall,’ for we all do just as we like.  There is no king in Israel.”

So speaking, he lifted the latch, and saluted a gigantic porter: 

“Holloa, Magog! hast thou digested the Woodstock deer yet?”

“Not so loud, my young sir.  We may be heard.”  He paused, but put his hand knowingly to the neck just under the left ear.

“Pshaw, he that is born to die in his bed can never be hanged.  Where is Spitfire?”

“Here,” said a sharp-speaking voice, coming from a precocious young monkey in a servitor’s dress.

“Get me a flagon of canary, and we will wash down the remains of the pasty.”

“But strangers are not admitted after curfew,” said the porter.

“And I must be getting to my lodgings,” said Martin.

“Tush, tush, didn’t you hear that this is Liberty Hall?

“Shut your mouth, Magog—­here is something to stop it.  This young warrior just knocked down a bos borealis, who strove to break my head.  Shall I not offer him bread and salt in return?”

The porter offered no further opposition, for the speaker slipped a coin into his palm as he continued: 

“Come this way, this is my den.  Not that way, that is spelunca latronum, a den of robbers.”

“Holloa! here is Ralph de Monceux, and with a broken head, as usual.

“Where didst thou get that, Master Ralph, roaring Ralph?”

Such sounds came from the spelunca latronum.”

“At the Quatre Voies, fighting for your honour against a drove of northern oxen.”

“And whom hast thou brought with thee to help thee mend it?”

“The fellow who knocked down the bos who gave it me, as deftly as any butcher.”

“Let us see him.”