the sound of the horse's feet, began to set the machinery of the
portcullis in motion.

'What! wounded already, master Scudamore!' he cried, as they rode
under the archway.

'Yes, Eccles,' answered Scudamore, '--wounded and taken prisoner,
and brought home for ransom!'

As they spoke, Richard made use of his eyes, with a vague notion
that some knowledge of the place might one day or other be of
service, but it was little he could see. The moon was almost down,
and her low light, prolific of shadows, shone straight in through
the lifted portcullis, but in the gateway where they stood, there
was nothing for her to show but the groined vault, the massy walls,
and the huge iron-studded gate beyond.

'Curse you for a roundhead!' cried Scudamore, in the wrath
engendered of a fierce twinge, as Heywood sought to help his lamed
leg over the saddle.

'Dismount on this side then,' said Richard, regardless of the
insult.

But the warder had caught the word.

'Roundhead!' he exclaimed.

Scudamore did not answer until he found himself safe on his feet,
and by that time he had recovered his good manners.