“Eh! and what are the names of these gallants; for you have used your eyes and ears, of course?”
“Edwin and Morcar, the earls,—two fine young lads.”
“I know it. Go on”; and a shade passed over William’s brow, as he thought of his own falsehood, and his fair Constance, weeping in vain for the fair bridegroom whom he had promised to her.
“Siward Barn, as they call him, the boy Orgar, and Thurkill Barn. Those are the knights. Egelwin, bishop of Durham, is there too; and besides them all, and above them all, Hereward. The like of that knight I may have seen. His better saw I never.”
“Sir fool!” said Earl Warrenne, who had not yet—small blame to him—forgotten his brother’s death. “They have soused thy brains with their muddy ale, till thou knowest not friend from foe. What! hast thou to come hither praising up to the King’s Majesty such an outlawed villain as that, with whom no honest knight would keep company?”
“If you, Earl Warrenne, ever found Dade drunk or lying, it is more than the King here has done.”
“Let him speak, Earl,” said William. “I have not an honester man in my camp; and he speaks for my information, not for yours.”
“Then for yours will I speak, Sir King. These men treated me knightly, and sent me away without ransom.”
“They had an eye to their own profit, it seems,” grumbled the Earl.
“But force me they did to swear on the holy Gospels that I should tell your Majesty the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. And I keep my oath,” quoth Dade.