‘What! wounded already, master Scudamore!’ he cried, as they rode under the archway.

‘Yes, Eccles,’ answered Scudamore, ’—­wounded and taken prisoner, and brought home for ransom!’

As they spoke, Richard made use of his eyes, with a vague notion that some knowledge of the place might one day or other be of service, but it was little he could see.  The moon was almost down, and her low light, prolific of shadows, shone straight in through the lifted portcullis, but in the gateway where they stood, there was nothing for her to show but the groined vault, the massy walls, and the huge iron-studded gate beyond.

‘Curse you for a roundhead!’ cried Scudamore, in the wrath engendered of a fierce twinge, as Heywood sought to help his lamed leg over the saddle.

‘Dismount on this side then,’ said Richard, regardless of the insult.

But the warder had caught the word.

‘Roundhead!’ he exclaimed.

Scudamore did not answer until he found himself safe on his feet, and by that time he had recovered his good manners.

‘This is young Mr. Heywood of Redware,’ he said, and moved towards the wicket, leaning on Richard’s arm.

But the old warder stepped in front, and stood between them and the gate.

’Not a damned roundhead of the pack shall set foot across this door-sill, so long as I hold the gate,’ he cried, with a fierce gesture of the right arm.  And therewith he set his back to the wicket.

‘Tut, tut, Eccles !’ returned Scudamore impatiently.  ’Good words are worth much, and cost little.’

‘If the old dog bark, he gives counsel,’ rejoined Eccles, immovable.

Heywood was amused, and stood silent, waiting the result.  He had no particular wish to enter, and yet would have liked to see what could be seen of the court.

’Where the doorkeeper is a churl, what will folk say of the master of the house?’ said Scudamore.

‘They may say as they list; it will neither hurt him nor me,’ said Eccles.

‘Make haste, my good fellow, and let us through,’ pleaded Scudamore.  ’By Saint George! but my leg is in great pain.  I fear the knee-cap is broken, in which case I shall not trouble thee much for a week of months.’

As he spoke, he stood leaning on Richard’s arm, and behind them stood Lady, still as a horse of bronze.

‘I will but drop the portcullis,’ said the warder, ’and then I will carry thee to thy room in my arms.  But not a cursed roundhead shall enter here, I swear.’

‘Let us through at once,’ said Scudamore, trying the imperative.

‘Not if the earl himself gave the order,’ persisted the man.

‘Ho! ho! what is that you say?  Let the gentlemen through,’ cried a voice from somewhere.

The warder opened the wicket immediately, stepped inside, and held it open while they entered, nor uttered another word.  But as soon as Richard had got Scudamore clear of the threshold, to which he lent not a helping finger, he stepped quietly out again, closed the wicket behind him, and taking Lady by the bridle, led her back over the bridge towards the bowling-green.