desperate struggle, baffled with a hoarse laugh by the men-at-arms, who were keeping him down, hand and foot, when a new voice sounded: “How now, fellows! What’s this?”

In one moment Walter was released and on his feet, and the men fell back, ashamed and gloomy, as a sturdy figure, with sun-browned face, light locks worn away by the helmet, and slightly grizzled, stood among them, in a much-rubbed and soiled chamois leather garment.

Walter broke out into passionate exclamations; the men, evidently ashamed, met them with murmurs and growls. “Bad enough, bad enough!” broke in Sigbert; “but there’s no need to make it worse. Better to waste with hunger and thirst than be a nidering fellow—rising against your lord in his distress.”

“We would never have done it if he would have kept a civil tongue.”

“Civility’s hard to a tongue dried up,” returned Sigbert. “But look you here, comrades, leave me a word with my young lord here, and I plight my faith that you shall have enow to quench your thirst within six hours at the least.”

There was an attempt at a cheer, broken by the murmur, “We have heard enough of that! It is always six hours and six hours.”

“And the Saracen hounds outside would at least give us a draught of water ere they made away with us,” said another.

“Saracens, forsooth!” said Sigbert. “You shall leave the Saracens far behind you. A few words first with my lord, and you shall hear. Meanwhile, you, John Cook, take all the beef remaining; make it in small fardels, such as a man may easily carry.”

“That’s soon done,” muttered the cook. “The entire weight would scarce bow a lad’s shoulders.”

“The rest of you put together what you would save from the enemy, and is not too heavy to carry.” One man made some attempt at growling at a mere lad being consulted, while the stout warriors were kept in ignorance; but the spirit of discipline and confidence had returned with Sigbert, and no one heeded the murmur. Meantime, Sigbert followed the young Lord Walter up the rough winding stairs to the chamber where Mabel lay on her cushions. “What! what!” demanded the boy, pausing to enter. Sigbert, by way of answer, quietly produced from some hidden pouch two figs. Walter snatched at one with a cry of joy. Mabel held out her hand, then, with a gasp, drew it back. “Has Roger had one?”

Sigbert signed in the affirmative, and Mabel took a 

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