"Lord," said he, "whither do we go?"
"Now," quoth Beltane, "shew me where I may eat, for I have a mighty hunger."
"Forsooth," quoth Roger, scratching his chin, "Shallowford village lieth but a bowshot through the brush yonder—yet, forsooth, a man shall eat little there, methinks, these days."
"Why so?"
"For that 'twas burned down, scarce a week agone—"
"Burned!—and wherefore?"
"Lord Pertolepe fell out with his neighbour Sir Gilles of Brandonmere— upon the matter of some wench, methinks it was—wherefore came Sir Gilles' men by night and burned down Shallowford with twenty hunting dogs of Sir Pertolepe's that chanced to be there: whereupon my lord waxed mighty wroth and, gathering his company, came into the demesne of Sir Gilles and burned down divers manors and hung certain rogues and destroyed two villages—in quittance."
"Ah—and what of the village folk?"
"My lord, they were but serfs for the most part, but—for Sir
Pertolepe's dogs—twenty and two—and roasted alive, poor beasts!"
But here Black Roger checked both speech and stride, all at once, and stood with quarter-staff poised as from the depth of the wood came the sound of voices and fierce laughter.