le him well to bear the horrors of a
dungeon.

"You are accused of rebellion," said the stern Edward, as he faced
them. "What is your answer?"

Few men dared to look into that face. Its frown was so awful, it is
recorded that a priest upon whom he looked once in displeasure and
anger, died of fear--yet he was never intentionally unjust.

Ralph spoke first--he felt that courageous avowal of the truth was
the only course.

"My prince," he said, "we must indeed avow that our convictions are
with the free barons of England, and that with them we must stand
or fall. If to share their sentiments is rebellion, rebels we are,
but we disclaim the word."

"And thou, Sir Mayor?"

"I am but the mouthpiece of my fellow citizens. I have no freewill
to choose."

"And thou, friar of orders grey?"

"Like all my brethren, I hold the cause of the Earl of Leicester
just," said Martin quietly.

Like the stark and stern conqueror of two centuries before, Edward
respected a man, and he stifled his rising anger era he replied:

"They are traitors, but I scorn to crush three men who (save the
burgess, perhaps) will not lie to save their forfeit necks, while
fifteen thousand men are in the field to maintain the like with
their swords. I will measure myself with the armed ones first, then
I may deal with knight, mayor, and friar. Till then, keep them in
ward."

Drogo was deeply disappointed. He had hoped to witness the
execution of Martin, which he could not carry out himself, owing to
the "superstitious" scruples of his followers, and to gain this he
would have sacrificed the ransoms of the other two. He loved gold,
but loved revenge more; and hatred was with him a stronger passion
than avarice.

And now the trumpets were blown, the banners waved in air, the
royal army moved forward for Lewes, and prominent in its ranks were
the newly-made knight and his followers.

He left his victims in durance, remitted to their dungeons--the
only chance of getting rid of Martin seemed secret murder. But
before starting from home he left secret instructions, which will
disclose themselves ere long.

As the thought of unmanly violence against an imprisoned captive
came into his mind, by chance his hand came into contact with a
hard object in his pouch or gypsire. He drew it forth. It was the
key of Martin's dungeon.

"Oh, joy! Oh, good luck! It would take twelve smiths to force that
door--meanwhile Martin would die of starvation and thir