“Leave thee in my stead!” exclaimed Cedric, astonished at the proposal; “why, they would hang thee, my poor knave.”
“E’en let them do as they are permitted,” answered Wamba. “I trust—no disparagement to your birth—that the son of Witless may hang in a chain with as much gravity as the chain hung upon his ancestor the [v]alderman.”
“Well, Wamba,” said Cedric, “for one thing will I grant thy request. And that is, if thou wilt make the exchange of garments with Lord Athelstane instead of me.”
“No,” answered Wamba; “there were little reason in that. Good right there is that the son of Witless should suffer to save the son of Hereward; but little wisdom there were in his dying for the benefit of one whose fathers were strangers to his.”
“Villain,” cried Cedric, “the fathers of Athelstane were monarchs of England!”
“They might be whomsoever they pleased,” replied Wamba; “but my neck stands too straight on my shoulders to have it twisted for their sake. Wherefore, good my master, either take my proffer yourself, or suffer me to leave this dungeon as free as I entered.”
“Let the old tree wither,” persisted Cedric, “so the stately hope of the forest be preserved. Save the noble Athelstane, my trusty Wamba! It is the duty of each who has Saxon blood in his veins. Thou and I will abide together the utmost rage of our oppressors, while he, free and safe, shall arouse the awakened spirits of our countrymen to avenge us.”
“Not so, father Cedric,” said Athelstane, grasping his hand—for, when roused to think or act, his deeds and sentiments were not unbecoming his high race—“not so. I would rather remain in this hall a week without food save the prisoner’s stinted loaf, or drink save the prisoner’s measure of water, than embrace the opportunity to escape which the slave’s untaught kindness has [v]purveyed for his master. Go, noble Cedric. Your presence without may encourage friends to our rescue; your remaining here would ruin us all.”
“And is there any prospect, then, of rescue from without?” asked Cedric, looking at the jester.
“Prospect indeed!” echoed Wamba. “Let me tell you that when you fill my cloak you are wrapped in a general’s cassock. Five hundred men are there without, and I was this morning one of their chief leaders. My fool’s cap was a [v]casque, and my [v]bauble a truncheon. Well, we shall see what good they will make by exchanging a fool for a wise man. Truly, I fear they will lose in valor what they may gain in discretion. And so farewell, master, and be kind to poor Gurth and his dog Fangs; and let my [v]coxcomb hang in the hall at Rotherwood in memory that I flung away my life for my master—like a faithful fool!”