"Nay, thou rascal. Joseph and Gros Vibart yonder have already good cause to remember thee. Anon we'll give thee a knife, Master Englishman, though not in the way thou wouldst."
So saying, the Norman leader passed a thong round Arnold's ankles—a difficult task, for the old man-at-arms lashed out with his feet like an untamed stallion—and at length the prisoner was secured. Then with a parting caution the sous-officier and three of the men rode off.
Left to themselves, the remaining two stood by their captive till the sound of the horses' hoofs had died away in the distance. Then they went out, whereupon Gripwell began struggling to free himself of his bonds.
"Arnold! Arnold Gripwell," said Geoffrey in a hoarse whisper, "'tis I, Geoffrey Lysle, and Oswald too! Keep silent, and we'll be at thy side in an instant."
"Save ye!" ejaculated the man-at-arms. "By all the saints of Christendom, how came ye here?"
"Hush! Here they come," cautioned the lad. Not a moment too soon; one of the quick-eared Normans had detected the sound of a voice.
"What wert thou babbling about, rogue?" he asked, throwing down a bundle of firewood that he had collected, and administering a vindictive kick at the helpless prisoner.
"Can only a Frenchman call upon his patron saint?" demanded Arnold fiercely.
Apparently the explanation sufficed, for the man said no more, but arranged the firewood and set light to it. The thick smoke ascended to the shattered roof, well-nigh causing the lads to choke and gasp for breath.
Meanwhile the second Frenchman had taken a small iron pot from his saddle bow, and had filled it with water from a leather bottle that hung from the saddle of his companion's horse, but on rising and stepping back from the fire the first man upset the utensil and spilled every drop of the liquid.