of old Mahound's paradise, I am an infidel, and no true son of the church."
"Should your boasted beauty," said the Templar, "be weighed in the balance and found wanting, you know our wager?" "My gold collar," answered the Prior, "against ten butts of Chian wine;—they are mine as securely as if they were already in the convent vaults, under the key of old Dennis the cellarer."
"And I am myself to be judge," said the Templar, "and am only to be convicted on my own admission, that I have seen no maiden so beautiful since Pentecost was a twelve-month. Ran it not so?—Prior, your collar is in danger, I will wear it over my gorget in the lists at Ashby-de-la-Zouche."
"Win it fairly," said the Prior, "and wear it as ye will; I shall trust your giving true response, on your word as a knight and as a church man. Yet, brother, take my advice, and file your tongue to a little more courtesy than your habits of predominating over infidel captives and eastern bondsmen have accustomed you. Cedric the Saxon, if offended,—and he is noway slack
