“There! I hope it may be put to my account in purgatory, my Martin. You are spoiling a good outlaw. Have your way, only this gay popinjay of a knight must stay until his ransom be paid. We can’t afford to lose that. But no harm shall befall him. Beside, we may want him as hostage in case this morning’s work bring a hornets’ nest about our ears.”
“Ralph, you are safe. Do you remember me?” said Martin.
“I remember a young fellow much like thee at Oxford, who defended my poor pate against the boves boreales, as now from latrones austroles. Verily, thou art born to be a shield to addle-pated Ralph. But art thou indeed a grey friar?”
“Yes, thank God.”
“And that was how it was we lost you, and wondered you never came near us again to share the fun. Father Adam had won you. Well, it is a good fellow lost to the world.”
“And gained to God, I hope.”
“I know nought of that. Only tell me, my Martin, what life am I to lead here?”
“Only give your parole and you will be free within the limits of the camp. I know their customs, being born amongst them.”
“Oh, wert thou! I wish thee joy of the honour. How, then, didst thou get to Oxford?”
“It is a long tale; another day I will tell thee. Now, wilt thou come with me, and give thy word to Grimbeard not to attempt to escape till thy messenger returns?”