"You are still pleased to speak in riddles," Darby answered with a shrug.
"Pardieu! it will be a riddle for which you have a shrewd answer ready for His Majesty."
"Methinks you have lost what little sense ever had and are not responsible," said Darby; "therefore I have the pleasure of wishing you a very good night," and he turned toward the door.
De Lacy laughed scornfully.
"Not so fast, my lord," he said. "You will have to bear with my poor company for a space. The King is at Lincoln."
"What has that to do with me? … Stand aside, fellow," as Dauvrey barred the way.
For answer the squire drew dagger and the man-at-arms laid a heavy hand on Darby's shoulder. It was useless to try bare fists against such odds and he wheeled about.
"What means this fresh outrage?" he demanded.
"It means that you are my prisoner."
"Your prisoner! And wherefore?"