“With how many?” demanded the leader, for such he seemed to be.
“With six men, and good hope of booty, if it please Saint Nicholas.”
“Devoutly spoken,” said Locksley. “And where is Allan-a-Dale?”
“Walked up toward the [v]Watling Street, to watch for the Prior of Jorvaulx.”
“That is well thought on also,” replied the captain. “And where is the friar?”
“In his cell.”
“Thither will I go,” said Locksley. “Disperse and seek your companions. Collect what force you can, for there’s game afoot that must be hunted hard and will turn to bay. Meet me here at daybreak. And stay,” he added; “I have forgotten what is most necessary of the whole. Two of you take the road quickly toward Torquilstone, the castle of [v]Front-de-Boeuf. A set of gallants, who have been [v]masquerading in such guise as our own, are carrying a band of prisoners thither. Watch them closely, for, even if they reach the castle before we collect our force, our honor is concerned to punish them, and we will find means to do so. Keep a good watch on them, therefore, and despatch one of your comrades to bring the news of the yeomen thereabouts.”
The men promised obedience and departed on their several errands. Meanwhile, their leader and his two companions, who now looked upon him with great respect as well as some fear, pursued their way to the chapel where dwelt the friar mentioned by Locksley. Presently they reached a little moonlit glade, in front of which stood an ancient and ruinous chapel and beside it a rude hermitage of stone half-covered with ivy vines.
The sounds which proceeded at that moment from the latter place were anything but churchly. In fact, the hermit and another voice were performing at the full extent of very powerful lungs an old drinking-song, of which this was the burden:
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
Bully boy, bully boy;
Come trowl the brown bowl to me:
Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave drinking;
Come trowl the brown bowl to me.