was it?"--"When was it?"--"How was it?" The Mayor caught up his chain,
the Aldermen donned their furred gowns, the Town Clerk put on his
spectacles. "Who was he?"--"What was he?"--"Where was he?"--He should
be hanged,--he should be burned,--he should be broiled,--he should be
fried,--he should be scraped to death with red-hot-oyster-shells! "Who
was he?"--"What was his name?"

The Abbot's Apparitor drew forth his roll and read aloud:--'Sir Robert
de Shurland, Knight banneret, Baron of Shurland and Minster, and Lord
of Sheppey.

The Mayor put his chain in his pocket, the Aldermen took off their
gowns, the Town Clerk put his pen behind his ear. It was a county
business altogether;--the Sheriff had better call out the _posse
comitatus_.

While saints and sinners were thus leaning against him, the Baron de
Shurland was quietly eating his breakfast. He had passed a tranquil
night, undisturbed by dreams of cowl or capuchin; nor was his appetite
more affected than his conscience. On the contrary, he sat rather
longer over his meal than usual; luncheon-time came, and he was ready
as ever for his oysters: but scarcely had Dame Martin opened his first
half-dozen when the warder's horn was heard from the barbican.

"Who the devil's that?" said Sir Robert. "I'm not at home, Periwinkle.
I hate to be disturbed at meals, and I won't be at home to anybody."

"An't please your lordship," answered the Seneschal, "Paul Prior hath
given notice that there is a body--"