had been done, and their leader was too cool-headed a man to have
attempted so bold a raid without some important reason. The abduction of
four young girls, two of whom at least were heiresses, might seem such a
reason to such a man. Evidently he did not suspect Ranulph's character as
a man of some reputation and the confidential messenger of the King of
England. This was a piece of luck. The chance of his being useful to the
captives was all the better.

With the elaborate meekness proper to his supposed low station he
answered, "You leave me no choice, my lord. To resist your will would be
suicide, and that is a mortal sin."

The knight grinned like a sour-tempered dog. "Take care," he said, "that
you change not your very praise-worthy views. Have you any little
diversion which may enliven a tedious hour at supper-time?"

Ranulph's quick mind had been turning over plans. He thanked a hard Fate
that his early experience in camps, markets, inn-yards and fairs had been
so thorough and so varied. In those days he had been what Biterres now
supposed him--one of those vagabond singers who sang popular songs and
often did tricks of jugglery, or danced, or gave acrobatic exhibitions,
wherever they found an audience. The panier in which the pigeons drowsed
was probably taken for a collection of costumes and properties.

The pigeons could not get through the barred window of his room. If they
were let loose in the courtyard and recognized as carriers, a bowman could
easily bring them down. But now he saw a way to elude suspicion.

"I have a trick," he ventured humbly, "which is most amusing, but it
requires a large shell or cofyn of pastry. When this pie is cut, live