“Come, sir, let us have the truth.”
Several of the monks lifted up their hands, charging the man to seal his lips.
“Parley not with a heretic,” said one.
“Receive martyrdom,” cried another, “and be blessed in heaven.”
Tristan turned on them with a grim scorn. He was in no mood for argument; that priests were mischievous rogues was his honest conviction.
“These are they who slew Samson,” he said, pointing at them with his axe. “Guards, take and hang them in the woods. Every priest shall hang who falls to me in the Seven Streams.”
The men obeyed him with no mean zest, fierce to be avenged on Samson’s enemies. Twelve frocked figures were soon jerking and struggling under the trees. Tristan, stern about the eyes, turned once again to the man before him.
“Come, friend,” he said, “this is the fortune of war. We are rid of these skirted fools; as soldier to soldier I offer fair terms. Tell me of Jocelyn and the men of Agravale, or hang beside the monks on yonder trees.”
Reynaud’s squire was young and lusty, not ripe for death either in years or spirit, and Tristan’s challenge worked his conversion. He began to confess such things as Tristan had desired.
“The Bishop has marched on the west,” he said, “even, sir, because he was so guided by St. Pelinore in a vision at Agravale. He had some three thousand spears following the Sacred Banner of the Golden Keys.”