"
"I have won him over," thought the Abbot.
"So charming a courtier,--so sweet a minstrel,--so agreeable a
newsmonger,--could I keep you in a cage forever, and hang you on a bough,
I were but too happy: but you are too fine a bird to sing in captivity. So
you must go, I fear, and leave us to the nightingales. And I will take for
your ransom--"
Abbot Thorold's heart beat high.
"Thirty thousand silver marks."
"Thirty thousand fiends!"
"My beau Sire, will you undervalue yourself? Will you degrade yourself? I
took Abbot Thorold, from his talk, to be a man who set even a higher value
on himself than other men set on him. What higher compliment can I pay to
your vast worth, than making your ransom high accordingly, after the
spirit of our ancient English laws? Take it as it is meant, beau Sire; be
proud to pay the money; and we will throw you Sir Ascelin into the
bargain, as he seems a friend of Siward's."
Thorold hoped that Hereward was drunk, and might forget, or relent; but he
was so sore at heart that he slept not a wink that night. But in the
morning he found, to his sorrow, that Hereward had been as sober as
himself.
In fine, he had to pay the money; and was a poor man all his days.
"Aha! Sir Ascelin," said Hereward apart, as he bade them all farewell with
many courtesies.
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