“Human nature, and innkeepers’ nature in particular, does not change between Dover and Calais; yet they would hardly do us the discourtesy to think that our heads muddled so easily.”

“Nay, lad, I was but following my motto that it is better to warn before the fight than after.”

“Did you warn before the fight in Yorkshire?”

“By St. Luke! there was the fitting moment for the motto, but the villains would give me no breathing space to speak.  And that reminds me:  do you recall the smooth-tongued Abbot of Kirkstall?”

“In truth, I do,” said Aymer.  “The most inquisitive monk I have chanced upon in many a day.”

“Well, the notion grips me hard that the Abbot Aldam could tell some tales about that little incident, and violate no secret of confessional either.  There have been strange rumors lately touching his Abbey and the style of servitors it employs at times.”

“Then we at least decreased their numbers—­but one escaped, if I remember rightly,” Aymer replied.

“Aye—­one; but it is enough.  Some day I may chance upon him and then . . .  I shall know the story.”

“Can you recognize the rogue?”

“Instantly.  I marked him well, for I had wounded him in the face by a thrust he turned but half aside.  A short, thick-set, red-haired knave, with a nose as flat as a sword blade.”

“I shall not forget,” said Aymer, “and mayhap I may find the story for you.  But it occurs to me you spoke of a bit of news.”

“By St. Luke, yes!  I nigh forgot it, yet it would have mattered little.  It is only that I ride North two days hence.”

“To Craigston Castle?”

“The same, unless I meet with misadventure on the way.”

“In the guise of a flat-nosed, red-haired knave,” said Aymer with a laugh.

“A pleasant misadventure, truly!  Though, were there any likelihood of that, you would best accompany me and save me from the rogue a second time.”

“Nay, my lord, an old bird is not caught twice in the same snare.  I scarce fancy you will be surprised a second time, or that he will again venture voluntarily within your reach.”

“Then you may not be persuaded to go with me?”

De Lacy shook his head.  “I fear I am not open to persuasion; I could not leave the Court at present.”

“It is a pity,” said Sir John, as he flung the score on the table and arose, “for I had thought the Countess of Clare might like to have you with us.  But of course, if the King cannot spare you, there is an end to the matter.”

De Lacy looked at the old Knight quizzically for an instant and then laughed frankly.

“It was not fairly done, Sir John,” he said; “you caught me foul—­you asked first, and reasoned only after I was helpless.”

“Well, there is no crime in reconsidering.  Will you come?”

“If the King will grant me leave, I shall fare with you.”