"Hush, lady. He comes to your tent. Shall I retire?"
"No, no! Stay by me, Jeannette. I shall feign sickness; let me lean my head upon you."
Baron Vigneau unceremoniously brushed aside the curtains and stalked into the tent. His gait was unsteady, and his eyes bloodshot; unmistakable evidences of a recent debauch.
"What, Alice, how is this?" said he, taking her hand in his. But it involuntarily shrank from his grasp. "What! aren't we friends yet? I did but drag the fair Saxon from among those monkish scoundrels to save her life."
"You seemed loth to part with her, Baron."
"Well, well, we'll take a goose till we can get our swan. But no great harm would have been done. They're jolly fellows, those monks, and know what's what, I warrant. The wench wouldn't have suffered, exchanging sniffling priests for a valiant knight."
Alice shuddered, and made haste to change the subject.
"What says the Saxon knight to your latest summons?"
"'Saxon whelp,' is much more like it, I trow. Well, he struts himself upon his trumpery battlements like a valiant scarecrow. I would he were a true knight and worthy of my prowess, I would challenge him to single combat, and you should see how he would fare when matched with Norman valour. But let him boast himself a day or two until we get our gear ready; then, if he does not get a short shrift in the mêlée, we'll have a little sport with him and make him dance to the music these Saxons like least best."
"Have you offered him honourable terms?"