“Speak, tormentor!” said Ramorny; “ill news are sport to thee even when they affect thyself, so that they concern others also.”
“Hem!—he, he!—I only desired to know if your knighthood proposed the chivalrous task of defending the castle with your single hand—I crave pardon, I meant your single arm? The question is worth asking, for I am good for little to aid the defence, unless you could prevail on the besiegers to take physic—he, he, he!—and Bonthron is as drunk as ale and strong waters can make him; and you, he, and I make up the whole garrison who are disposed for resistance.”
“How! Will the other dogs not fight?” said Ramorny.
“Never saw men who showed less stomach to the work,” answered Dwining—“never. But here come a brace of them. Venit extrema dies. He, he, he!”
Eviot and his companion Buncle now approached, with sullen resolution in their faces, like men who had made their minds up to resist that authority which they had so long obeyed.
“How now!” said Ramorny, stepping forward to meet them. “Wherefore from your posts? Why have you left the barbican, Eviot? And you other fellow, did I not charge you to look to the mangonels?”
“We have something to tell you, Sir John Ramorny,” answered Eviot. “We will not fight in this quarrel.”
“How—my own squires control me?” exclaimed Ramorny.
“We were your squires and pages, my lord, while you were master of the Duke of Rothsay’s household. It is bruited about the Duke no longer lives; we desire to know the truth.”
“What traitor dares spread such falsehoods?” said Ramorny.