"Lash yourself, master, and let out the choler and good ale, which you
need to do," replied Jeffrey in his gruff voice. "There be some men who
never know when they are well served, and such are apt to come to ill
and lonely ends. What is your pleasure? I'll do it if I can, and if not,
do it yourself."

Sir John lifted his hand as though to strike him, then let it fall
again.

"I like one who braves me to my teeth," he said more gently, "and that
was ever your nature. Take it not ill, man; I was angered, and have
cause to be."

"The anger I see, but not the cause, though, as a monk came from the
Abbey but now, perhaps I can hazard a guess."

"Aye, that's it, that's it, Jeffrey. Hark; I ride to yonder
crows'-nest, and at once. Saddle me a horse."

"Good, master. I'll saddle two horses."

"Two? I said one. Fool, can I ride a pair at once, like a mountebank?"

"I know not, but you can ride one and I another. When the Abbot of
Blossholme visits Sir John Foterell of Shefton he comes with hawk on
wrist, with chaplains and pages, and ten stout men-at-arms, of whom he
keeps more of late than a priest would seem to need about him. When Sir
John Foterell visits the Abbot of Blossholme, at least he should have
one serving-man at his back to hold his nag and bear him witness."