“Avaunt, foul baggage!” the elder exclaimed.  “Have you no shame to ply your lewd vocation before a priest of God?  Verily, you do well to hide your face behind a mask.”

The girl drew back timidly, and with never a word in reply passed on to the two men-at-arms.  Here she got a different sort of greeting.

“Do not fret your pretty eyes over that pair of hypocrites in black, yonder,” one of them exclaimed loudly and speaking directly at the Benedictines; “they are holy only in a crowd.  If they met you when none else were near, they would tear off each other’s gowns to be the first in your favors.”

“Right, comrade mine, right!” laughed his companion, bringing his fist down upon the table until the mugs rattled.

The two monks turned upon them.

“You godless men,” said one sternly; “it is well you bear no badge of maintenance, else would your lord have chance to work some wholesome discipline upon you.”

But the men-at-arms only laughed derisively and made no response.

Meanwhile the damsel had approached the strange Knight and sought a gratuity.  With ostentatious display he drew out a quarter noble and dropped it on the tambourine.  Then as she curtsied in acknowledgment he leaned forward, and caught her arm.

“Come, little one, show me your face,” he said.

With a startled cry the girl sprang back and struggled to get free.  But the Knight only smiled and drew her slowly to his knee, shifting his arm to her waist.

“Pardieu! my dear, be not so timid,” he scoffed.  “Kiss me and I may release you.”

For answer she struck at him with the tambourine, cutting his chin with one of the metal discs so that the blood oozed out.

“Little devil!” he muttered; and without more ado bent back her head, whispering something the while.

With a last desperate effort to free herself, which was futile, and with the dark face drawing with mocking slowness toward her own, she realized her utter helplessness and cried appealingly for aid.

In a trice, she was seized and torn away; and between her and her assailant, and facing him, stood Sir Aymer de Lacy, his arms folded and a contemptuous smile upon his lips.  The next instant, without a word, the other plucked out his dagger and leaped upon him, aiming a thrust at his neck.  By a quick step to the side Aymer avoided the rush, and as the other lurched by he struck him a swinging right arm blow behind the ear that sent him plunging among the rushes on the floor, while the dagger rolled across to the farther wall.

[Illustration:  He struck him a swinging right arm blow that sent him plunging among the rushes on the floor.]

“Bravo!  Bravo!” cried the two men-at-arms.  “Shall we throw him into the street, my lord?”

He waved them back; and the Knight, who had been slightly dazed, struggled to his feet and looked about him.  Then seeing De Lacy, who had resumed his calmly contemptuous attitude, he grasped the situation and a wave of red anger crossed his face.  But he was not of the blustering sort, it seemed, and drawing out a handkerchief he proceeded carefully to fleck the dirt and dust from his doublet and hose.  When he had removed the last speck, he bowed low.