"It is not to that effect that my orders run."
"They say you did not like that kind of thing at first."
"Neither do I now, but I have perforce got used to it."
"Bon soir;" and the chaplain sauntered off to drink mulled sack. It was a shocking thing that the Church, in his person, should set her seal of approbation on such tyranny as that of a Norman hold in Stephen's days.
Osric descended to the foot of the tower, crossed the greensward, and entered the new dungeons of Brian's Close. On the ground-floor were the apartments of Tustain the gaoler, extending over the whole basement of the tower and full of the hateful implements of his office.
There were manacles, gyves, and fetters. There were racks and thumbscrews, scourges, pincers, and other instruments of mediæval cruelty. There were arms of various kinds—swords, axes, lances, bows and arrows, armour for all parts of the body, siege implements, and the like. There were lanterns and torches for the service of the dungeons. There were rows of iron basons, plates, and cups for the food of the prisoners. Lastly, there were many huge keys.
In the midst of all this medley stood a solid oak table, and thereat sat Tustain the gaoler-in-chief—now advanced in years and somewhat impotent on his feet, but with a heart as hard as the nether millstone—with his three sons, all gaolers, like himself, eating their supper. A fairly spread table was before them—very different from the fare they supplied to their prisoners, you may be sure.
"We have locked up for the night, and are taking our ease, Master Osric."
"I grieve to disturb thy ease, but my lord has sent me to thee, Tustain."