"THE WHITE COMPANY\n\nBy Sir Arthur Conan Doyle\n\nCHAPTER I. HOW THE BLACK SHEEP CAME FORTH FROM THE FOLD.\n\n\nThe great bell of Beaulieu was ringing. Far away through the forest\nmight be heard its musical clangor and swell. Peat-cutters on Blackdown\nand fishers upon the Exe heard the distant throbbing rising and falling\nupon the sultry summer air. It was a common sound in those parts--as\ncommon as the chatter of the jays and the booming of the bittern. Yet\nthe fishers and the peasants raised their heads and looked questions at\neach other, for the angelus had already gone and vespers was still far\noff. Why should the great bell of Beaulieu toll when the shadows were\nneither short nor long?\n\nAll round the Abbey the monks were trooping in. Under the long\ngreen-paved avenues of gnarled oaks and of lichened beeches the\nwhite-robed brothers gathered to the sound. From the vine-yard and\nthe vine-press, from the bouvary or ox-farm, from the marl-pits and\nsalterns, even from the distant iron-works of Sowley and the outlying\ngrange of St. Leonard's, they had all turned their steps homewards. It\nhad been no sudden call. A swift messenger had the night before sped\nround to the outlying dependencies of the Abbey, and had left the\nsummons for every monk to be back in the cloisters by the third hour\nafter noontide. So urgent a message had not been issued within the\nmemory of old lay-brother Athanasius, who had cleaned the Abbey knocker\nsince the year after the Battle of Bannockburn.\n\nA stranger who knew nothing either of the Abbey or of its immense\nresources might have gathered from the appearance of the brothers some\nconception of the varied duties which they were called upon to perform,\nand of the busy, wide-spread life which centred in the old monastery.\nAs they swept gravely in by twos and by threes, with bended heads and\nmuttering lips there were few who did not bear upon them some signs of\ntheir daily toil. Here were two with wrists and sleeves all spotted\nwith the ruddy grape juice. There again was a bearded brother with\na broad-headed axe and a bundle of faggots upon his shoulders, while\nbeside him walked another with the shears under his arm and the white\nwool still clinging to his whiter gown. A long, straggling troop bore\nspades and mattocks while the two rearmost of all staggered along under\na huge basket o' fresh-caught carp, for the morrow was Friday, and there\nwere fifty platters to be filled and as many sturdy trenchermen behind\nthem. Of all the throng there was scarce one who was not labor-stained\nand weary, for Abbot Berghersh was a hard man to himself and to others.\n\nMeanwhile, in the broad and lofty chamber set apart for occasions of\nimport, the Abbot himself was pacing impatiently backwards and forwards,\nwith his long white nervous hands clasped in front of him. His thin,\nthought-worn features and sunken, haggard cheeks bespoke one who had\nindeed beaten down that inner foe whom every man must face, but had none\nthe less suffered sorely in the contest. In crushing his passions he had\nwell-nigh crushed himself. Yet, frail as was his person there gleamed\nout ever and anon from under his drooping brows a flash of fierce\nenergy, which recalled to men's minds that he came of a fighting stock,\nand that even now his twin-brother, Sir Bartholomew Berghersh, was one\nof the most famous of those stern warriors who had planted the Cross of\nSt. George before the gates of Paris. With lips compressed and clouded\nbrow, he strode up and down the oaken floor, the very genius and\nimpersonation of asceticism, while the great bell still thundered and\nclanged above his head. At last the uproar died away in three last,\nmeasured throbs, and ere their echo had ceased the Abbot struck a small\ngong which summoned a lay-brother to his presence.\n\n\"Have the brethren come?\" he asked, in the Anglo-French dialect used in\nreligious houses.\n\n\"They are here,\" the other answered, with his eyes cast down and his\nhands crossed upon his chest.\n\n\"All?\"\n\n\"Two and thirty of the seniors and fifteen of the novices, most holy\nfather. Brother Mark of the Spicarium is sore smitten with a fever and\ncould not come. He said that--\"\n\n\"It boots not what he said. Fever or no, he should have come at my call.\nHis spirit must be chastened, as must that of many more in this Abbey.\nYou yourself, brother Francis, have twice raised your voice, so it hath\ncome to my ears, when the reader in the refectory hath been dealing with\nthe lives of God's most blessed saints. What hast thou to say?\"\n\nThe lay-brother stood meek and silent, with his arms still crossed in\nfront of him.\n\n\"One thousand Aves and as many Credos, said standing with arms\noutstretched before the shrine of the Virgin, may help thee to remember\nthat the Creator hath given us two ears and but one mouth, as a token\nthat there is twice the work for the one as for the other. Where is the\nmaster of the novices?\"\n\n\"He is without, most holy father.\"\n\n\"Send him hither.\"\n\nThe sandalled feet clattered over the wooden floor, and the iron-bound\ndoor creaked upon its hinges. In a few moments it opened again to admit\na short square monk with a heavy, composed face and an authoritative\nmanner.\n\n\"You have sent for me, holy father?\"\n\n\"Yes, brother Jerome, I wish that this matter be disposed of with as\nlittle scandal as may be, and yet it is needful that the example should\nbe a public one.\" The Abbot spoke in Latin now, as a language which was\nmore fitted by its age and solemnity to convey the thoughts of two high\ndignitaries of the order.\n\n\"It would, perchance, be best that the novices be not admitted,\"\nsuggested the master. \"This mention of a woman may turn their minds from\ntheir pious meditations to worldly and evil thoughts.\"\n\n\"Woman! woman!\" groaned the Abbot. \"Well has the holy Chrysostom termed\nthem _radix malorum_. From Eve downwards, what good hath come from any\nof them? Who brings the plaint?\"\n\n\"It is brother Ambrose.\"\n\n\"A holy and devout young man.\"\n\n\"A light and a pattern to every novice.\"\n\n\"Let the matter be brought to an issue then according to our old-time\nmonastic habit. Bid the chancellor and the sub-chancellor lead in the\nbrothers according to age, together with brother John, the accused, and\nbrother Ambrose, the accuser.\"\n\n\"And the novices?\"\n\n\"Let them bide in the north alley of the cloisters. Stay! Bid the\nsub-chancellor send out to them Thomas the lector to read unto them\nfrom the 'Gesta beati Benedicti.' It may save them from foolish and\npernicious babbling.\"\n\nThe Abbot was left to himself once more, and bent his thin gray face\nover his illuminated breviary. So he remained while the senior monks\nfiled slowly and sedately into the chamber seating themselves upon the\nlong oaken benches which lined the wall on either side. At the further\nend, in two high chairs as large as that of the Abbot, though hardly as\nelaborately carved, sat the master of the novices and the chancellor,\nthe latter a broad and portly priest, with dark mirthful eyes and a\nthick outgrowth of crisp black hair all round his tonsured head. Between\nthem stood a lean, white-faced brother who appeared to be ill at ease,\nshifting his feet from side to side and tapping his chin nervously with\nthe long parchment roll which he held in his hand. The Abbot, from his\npoint of vantage, looked down on the two long lines of faces, placid and\nsun-browned for the most part, with the large bovine eyes and unlined\nfeatures which told of their easy, unchanging existence. Then he turned\nhis eager fiery gaze upon the pale-faced monk who faced him.\n\n\"This plaint is thine, as I learn, brother Ambrose,\" said he. \"May the\nholy Benedict, patron of our house, be present this day and aid us in\nour findings! How many counts are there?\"\n\n\"Three, most holy father,\" the brother answered in a low and quavering\nvoice.\n\n\"Have you set them forth according to rule?\"\n\n\"They are here set down, most holy father, upon a cantle of sheep-skin.\"\n\n\"Let the sheep-skin be handed to the chancellor. Bring in brother John,\nand let him hear the plaints which have been urged against him.\"\n\nAt this order a lay-brother swung open the door, and two other\nlay-brothers entered leading between them a young novice of the order.\nHe was a man of huge stature, dark-eyed and red-headed, with a peculiar\nhalf-humorous, half-defiant expression upon his bold, well-marked\nfeatures. His cowl was thrown back upon his shoulders, and his gown,\nunfastened at the top, disclosed a round, sinewy neck, ruddy and corded\nlike the bark of the fir. Thick, muscular arms, covered with a reddish\ndown, protruded from the wide sleeves of his habit, while his white\nshirt, looped up upon one side, gave a glimpse of a huge knotty leg,\nscarred and torn with the scratches of brambles. With a bow to the\nAbbot, which had in it perhaps more pleasantry than reverence, the\nnovice strode across to the carved prie-dieu which had been set apart\nfor him, and stood silent and erect with his hand upon the gold bell\nwhich was used in the private orisons of the Abbot's own household. His\ndark eyes glanced rapidly over the assembly, and finally settled with a\ngrim and menacing twinkle upon the face of his accuser.\n\nThe chancellor rose, and having slowly unrolled the parchment-scroll,\nproceeded to read it out in a thick and pompous voice, while a subdued\nrustle and movement among the brothers bespoke the interest with which\nthey followed the proceedings.\n\n\"Charges brought upon the second Thursday after the Feast of the\nAssumption, in the year of our Lord thirteen hundred and sixty-six,\nagainst brother John, formerly known as Hordle John, or John of Hordle,\nbut now a novice in the holy monastic order of the Cistercians. Read\nupon the same day at the Abbey of Beaulieu in the presence of the most\nreverend Abbot Berghersh and of the assembled order.\n\n\"The charges against the said brother John are the following, namely, to\nwit:\n\n\"First, that on the above-mentioned Feast of the Assumption, small beer\nhaving been served to the novices in the proportion of one quart to\neach four, the said brother John did drain the pot at one draught to\nthe detriment of brother Paul, brother Porphyry and brother Ambrose,\nwho could scarce eat their none-meat of salted stock-fish on account of\ntheir exceeding dryness.\"\n\nAt this solemn indictment the novice raised his hand and twitched his\nlip, while even the placid senior brothers glanced across at each other\nand coughed to cover their amusement. The Abbot alone sat gray and\nimmutable, with a drawn face and a brooding eye.\n\n\"Item, that having been told by the master of the novices that he should\nrestrict his food for two days to a single three-pound loaf of bran and\nbeans, for the greater honoring and glorifying of St. Monica, mother of\nthe holy Augustine, he was heard by brother Ambrose and others to say\nthat he wished twenty thousand devils would fly away with the said\nMonica, mother of the holy Augustine, or any other saint who came\nbetween a man and his meat. Item, that upon brother Ambrose reproving\nhim for this blasphemous wish, he did hold the said brother face\ndownwards over the piscatorium or fish-pond for a space during which\nthe said brother was able to repeat a pater and four aves for the better\nfortifying of his soul against impending death.\"\n\nThere was a buzz and murmur among the white-frocked brethren at this\ngrave charge; but the Abbot held up his long quivering hand. \"What\nthen?\" said he.\n\n\"Item, that between nones and vespers on the feast of James the Less the\nsaid brother John was observed upon the Brockenhurst road, near the spot\nwhich is known as Hatchett's Pond in converse with a person of the other\nsex, being a maiden of the name of Mary Sowley, the daughter of the\nKing's verderer. Item, that after sundry japes and jokes the said\nbrother John did lift up the said Mary Sowley and did take, carry, and\nconvey her across a stream, to the infinite relish of the devil and the\nexceeding detriment of his own soul, which scandalous and wilful falling\naway was witnessed by three members of our order.\"\n\nA dead silence throughout the room, with a rolling of heads and\nupturning of eyes, bespoke the pious horror of the community.\n\nThe Abbot drew his gray brows low over his fiercely questioning eyes.\n\n\"Who can vouch for this thing?\" he asked.\n\n\"That can I,\" answered the accuser. \"So too can brother Porphyry, who\nwas with me, and brother Mark of the Spicarium, who hath been so much\nstirred and inwardly troubled by the sight that he now lies in a fever\nthrough it.\"\n\n\"And the woman?\" asked the Abbot. \"Did she not break into lamentation\nand woe that a brother should so demean himself?\"\n\n\"Nay, she smiled sweetly upon him and thanked him. I can vouch it and so\ncan brother Porphyry.\"\n\n\"Canst thou?\" cried the Abbot, in a high, tempestuous tone. \"Canst thou\nso? Hast forgotten that the five-and-thirtieth rule of the order is that\nin the presence of a woman the face should be ever averted and the eyes\ncast down? Hast forgot it, I say? If your eyes were upon your sandals,\nhow came ye to see this smile of which ye prate? A week in your cells,\nfalse brethren, a week of rye-bread and lentils, with double lauds and\ndouble matins, may help ye to remembrance of the laws under which ye\nlive.\"\n\nAt this sudden outflame of wrath the two witnesses sank their faces on\nto their chests, and sat as men crushed. The Abbot turned his angry eyes\naway from them and bent them upon the accused, who met his searching\ngaze with a firm and composed face.\n\n\"What hast thou to say, brother John, upon these weighty things which\nare urged against you?\"\n\n\"Little enough, good father, little enough,\" said the novice, speaking\nEnglish with a broad West Saxon drawl. The brothers, who were English\nto a man, pricked up their ears at the sound of the homely and yet\nunfamiliar speech; but the Abbot flushed red with anger, and struck his\nhand upon the oaken arm of his chair.\n\n\"What talk is this?\" he cried. \"Is this a tongue to be used within the\nwalls of an old and well-famed monastery? But grace and learning have\never gone hand in hand, and when one is lost it is needless to look for\nthe other.\"\n\n\"I know not about that,\" said brother John. \"I know only that the words\ncome kindly to my mouth, for it was the speech of my fathers before me.\nUnder your favor, I shall either use it now or hold my peace.\"\n\nThe Abbot patted his foot and nodded his head, as one who passes a point\nbut does not forget it.\n\n\"For the matter of the ale,\" continued brother John, \"I had come in hot\nfrom the fields and had scarce got the taste of the thing before\nmine eye lit upon the bottom of the pot. It may be, too, that I spoke\nsomewhat shortly concerning the bran and the beans, the same being poor\nprovender and unfitted for a man of my inches. It is true also that I\ndid lay my hands upon this jack-fool of a brother Ambrose, though, as\nyou can see, I did him little scathe. As regards the maid, too, it is\ntrue that I did heft her over the stream, she having on her hosen and\nshoon, whilst I had but my wooden sandals, which could take no hurt from\nthe water. I should have thought shame upon my manhood, as well as my\nmonkhood, if I had held back my hand from her.\" He glanced around as\nhe spoke with the half-amused look which he had worn during the whole\nproceedings.\n\n\"There is no need to go further,\" said the Abbot. \"He has confessed to\nall. It only remains for me to portion out the punishment which is due\nto his evil conduct.\"\n\nHe rose, and the two long lines of brothers followed his example,\nlooking sideways with scared faces at the angry prelate.\n\n\"John of Hordle,\" he thundered, \"you have shown yourself during the two\nmonths of your novitiate to be a recreant monk, and one who is unworthy\nto wear the white garb which is the outer symbol of the spotless spirit.\nThat dress shall therefore be stripped from thee, and thou shalt be cast\ninto the outer world without benefit of clerkship, and without lot or\npart in the graces and blessings of those who dwell under the care of\nthe Blessed Benedict. Thou shalt come back neither to Beaulieu nor to\nany of the granges of Beaulieu, and thy name shall be struck off the\nscrolls of the order.\"\n\nThe sentence appeared a terrible one to the older monks, who had become\nso used to the safe and regular life of the Abbey that they would have\nbeen as helpless as children in the outer world. From their pious\noasis they looked dreamily out at the desert of life, a place full of\nstormings and strivings--comfortless, restless, and overshadowed by\nevil. The young novice, however, appeared to have other thoughts, for\nhis eyes sparkled and his smile broadened. It needed but that to add\nfresh fuel to the fiery mood of the prelate.\n\n\"So much for thy spiritual punishment,\" he cried. \"But it is to thy\ngrosser feelings that we must turn in such natures as thine, and as\nthou art no longer under the shield of holy church there is the less\ndifficulty. Ho there! lay-brothers--Francis, Naomi, Joseph--seize him\nand bind his arms! Drag him forth, and let the foresters and the porters\nscourge him from the precincts!\"\n\nAs these three brothers advanced towards him to carry out the Abbot's\ndirection, the smile faded from the novice's face, and he glanced right\nand left with his fierce brown eyes, like a bull at a baiting. Then,\nwith a sudden deep-chested shout, he tore up the heavy oaken prie-dieu\nand poised it to strike, taking two steps backward the while, that none\nmight take him at a vantage.\n\n\"By the black rood of Waltham!\" he roared, \"if any knave among you lays\na finger-end upon the edge of my gown, I will crush his skull like a\nfilbert!\" With his thick knotted arms, his thundering voice, and his\nbristle of red hair, there was something so repellent in the man that\nthe three brothers flew back at the very glare of him; and the two rows\nof white monks strained away from him like poplars in a tempest. The\nAbbot only sprang forward with shining eyes; but the chancellor and the\nmaster hung upon either arm and wrested him back out of danger's way.\n\n\"He is possessed of a devil!\" they shouted. \"Run, brother Ambrose,\nbrother Joachim! Call Hugh of the Mill, and Woodman Wat, and Raoul with\nhis arbalest and bolts. Tell them that we are in fear of our lives! Run,\nrun! for the love of the Virgin!\"\n\nBut the novice was a strategist as well as a man of action. Springing\nforward, he hurled his unwieldy weapon at brother Ambrose, and, as desk\nand monk clattered on to the floor together, he sprang through the open\ndoor and down the winding stair. Sleepy old brother Athanasius, at\nthe porter's cell, had a fleeting vision of twinkling feet and flying\nskirts; but before he had time to rub his eyes the recreant had passed\nthe lodge, and was speeding as fast as his sandals could patter along\nthe Lyndhurst Road.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II. HOW ALLEYNE EDRICSON CAME OUT INTO THE WORLD.\n\n\nNever had the peaceful atmosphere of the old Cistercian house been so\nrudely ruffled. Never had there been insurrection so sudden, so short,\nand so successful. Yet the Abbot Berghersh was a man of too firm a grain\nto allow one bold outbreak to imperil the settled order of his great\nhousehold. In a few hot and bitter words, he compared their false\nbrother's exit to the expulsion of our first parents from the garden,\nand more than hinted that unless a reformation occurred some others of\nthe community might find themselves in the same evil and perilous case.\nHaving thus pointed the moral and reduced his flock to a fitting state\nof docility, he dismissed them once more to their labors and withdrew\nhimself to his own private chamber, there to seek spiritual aid in the\ndischarge of the duties of his high office.\n\nThe Abbot was still on his knees, when a gentle tapping at the door of\nhis cell broke in upon his orisons.\n\nRising in no very good humor at the interruption, he gave the word to\nenter; but his look of impatience softened down into a pleasant and\npaternal smile as his eyes fell upon his visitor.\n\nHe was a thin-faced, yellow-haired youth, rather above the middle size,\ncomely and well shapen, with straight, lithe figure and eager, boyish\nfeatures. His clear, pensive gray eyes, and quick, delicate expression,\nspoke of a nature which had unfolded far from the boisterous joys and\nsorrows of the world. Yet there was a set of the mouth and a prominence\nof the chin which relieved him of any trace of effeminacy. Impulsive\nhe might be, enthusiastic, sensitive, with something sympathetic and\nadaptive in his disposition; but an observer of nature's tokens would\nhave confidently pledged himself that there was native firmness and\nstrength underlying his gentle, monk-bred ways.\n\nThe youth was not clad in monastic garb, but in lay attire, though his\njerkin, cloak and hose were all of a sombre hue, as befitted one who\ndwelt in sacred precincts. A broad leather strap hanging from his\nshoulder supported a scrip or satchel such as travellers were wont to\ncarry. In one hand he grasped a thick staff pointed and shod with metal,\nwhile in the other he held his coif or bonnet, which bore in its front a\nbroad pewter medal stamped with the image of Our Lady of Rocamadour.\n\n\"Art ready, then, fair son?\" said the Abbot. \"This is indeed a day of\ncomings and of goings. It is strange that in one twelve hours the Abbey\nshould have cast off its foulest weed and should now lose what we are\nfain to look upon as our choicest blossom.\"\n\n\"You speak too kindly, father,\" the youth answered. \"If I had my will I\nshould never go forth, but should end my days here in Beaulieu. It hath\nbeen my home as far back as my mind can carry me, and it is a sore thing\nfor me to have to leave it.\"\n\n\"Life brings many a cross,\" said the Abbot gently. \"Who is without them?\nYour going forth is a grief to us as well as to yourself. But there\nis no help. I had given my foreword and sacred promise to your father,\nEdric the Franklin, that at the age of twenty you should be sent out\ninto the world to see for yourself how you liked the savor of it. Seat\nthee upon the settle, Alleyne, for you may need rest ere long.\"\n\nThe youth sat down as directed, but reluctantly and with diffidence.\nThe Abbot stood by the narrow window, and his long black shadow fell\nslantwise across the rush-strewn floor.\n\n\"Twenty years ago,\" he said, \"your father, the Franklin of Minstead,\ndied, leaving to the Abbey three hides of rich land in the hundred of\nMalwood, and leaving to us also his infant son on condition that we\nshould rear him until he came to man's estate. This he did partly\nbecause your mother was dead, and partly because your elder brother,\nnow Socman of Minstead, had already given sign of that fierce and rude\nnature which would make him no fit companion for you. It was his desire\nand request, however, that you should not remain in the cloisters, but\nshould at a ripe age return into the world.\"\n\n\"But, father,\" interrupted the young man, \"it is surely true that I am\nalready advanced several degrees in clerkship?\"\n\n\"Yes, fair son, but not so far as to bar you from the garb you now wear\nor the life which you must now lead. You have been porter?\"\n\n\"Yes, father.\"\n\n\"Exorcist?\"\n\n\"Yes, father.\"\n\n\"Reader?\"\n\n\"Yes, father.\"\n\n\"Acolyte?\"\n\n\"Yes, father.\"\n\n\"But have sworn no vow of constancy or chastity?\"\n\n\"No, father.\"\n\n\"Then you are free to follow a worldly life. But let me hear, ere you\nstart, what gifts you take away with you from Beaulieu? Some I already\nknow. There is the playing of the citole and the rebeck. Our choir will\nbe dumb without you. You carve too?\"\n\nThe youth's pale face flushed with the pride of the skilled workman.\n\"Yes, holy father,\" he answered. \"Thanks to good brother Bartholomew, I\ncarve in wood and in ivory, and can do something also in silver and\nin bronze. From brother Francis I have learned to paint on vellum, on\nglass, and on metal, with a knowledge of those pigments and essences\nwhich can preserve the color against damp or a biting air. Brother\nLuke hath given me some skill in damask work, and in the enamelling of\nshrines, tabernacles, diptychs and triptychs. For the rest, I know a\nlittle of the making of covers, the cutting of precious stones, and the\nfashioning of instruments.\"\n\n\"A goodly list, truly,\" cried the superior with a smile. \"What clerk of\nCambrig or of Oxenford could say as much? But of thy reading--hast not\nso much to show there, I fear?\"\n\n\"No, father, it hath been slight enough. Yet, thanks to our good\nchancellor, I am not wholly unlettered. I have read Ockham, Bradwardine,\nand other of the schoolmen, together with the learned Duns Scotus and\nthe book of the holy Aquinas.\"\n\n\"But of the things of this world, what have you gathered from your\nreading? From this high window you may catch a glimpse over the wooden\npoint and the smoke of Bucklershard of the mouth of the Exe, and the\nshining sea. Now, I pray you, Alleyne, if a man were to take a ship and\nspread sail across yonder waters, where might he hope to arrive?\"\n\nThe youth pondered, and drew a plan amongst the rushes with the point\nof his staff. \"Holy father,\" said he, \"he would come upon those parts\nof France which are held by the King's Majesty. But if he trended to the\nsouth he might reach Spain and the Barbary States. To his north would be\nFlanders and the country of the Eastlanders and of the Muscovites.\"\n\n\"True. And how if, after reaching the King's possessions, he still\njourneyed on to the eastward?\"\n\n\"He would then come upon that part of France which is still in dispute,\nand he might hope to reach the famous city of Avignon, where dwells our\nblessed father, the prop of Christendom.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\n\"Then he would pass through the land of the Almains and the great Roman\nEmpire, and so to the country of the Huns and of the Lithuanian pagans,\nbeyond which lies the great city of Constantine and the kingdom of the\nunclean followers of Mahmoud.\"\n\n\"And beyond that, fair son?\"\n\n\"Beyond that is Jerusalem and the Holy Land, and the great river which\nhath its source in the Garden of Eden.\"\n\n\"And then?\"\n\n\"Nay, good father, I cannot tell. Methinks the end of the world is not\nfar from there.\"\n\n\"Then we can still find something to teach thee, Alleyne,\" said the\nAbbot complaisantly. \"Know that many strange nations lie betwixt there\nand the end of the world. There is the country of the Amazons, and the\ncountry of the dwarfs, and the country of the fair but evil women who\nslay with beholding, like the basilisk. Beyond that again is the kingdom\nof Prester John and of the great Cham. These things I know for very\nsooth, for I had them from that pious Christian and valiant knight, Sir\nJohn de Mandeville, who stopped twice at Beaulieu on his way to and from\nSouthampton, and discoursed to us concerning what he had seen from the\nreader's desk in the refectory, until there was many a good brother who\ngot neither bit nor sup, so stricken were they by his strange tales.\"\n\n\"I would fain know, father,\" asked the young man, \"what there may be at\nthe end of the world?\"\n\n\"There are some things,\" replied the Abbot gravely, \"into which it was\nnever intended that we should inquire. But you have a long road before\nyou. Whither will you first turn?\"\n\n\"To my brother's at Minstead. If he be indeed an ungodly and violent\nman, there is the more need that I should seek him out and see whether I\ncannot turn him to better ways.\"\n\nThe Abbot shook his head. \"The Socman of Minstead hath earned an evil\nname over the country side,\" he said. \"If you must go to him, see at\nleast that he doth not turn you from the narrow path upon which you have\nlearned to tread. But you are in God's keeping, and Godward should you\never look in danger and in trouble. Above all, shun the snares of women,\nfor they are ever set for the foolish feet of the young. Kneel down, my\nchild, and take an old man's blessing.\"\n\nAlleyne Edricson bent his head while the Abbot poured out his heartfelt\nsupplication that Heaven would watch over this young soul, now going\nforth into the darkness and danger of the world. It was no mere form for\neither of them. To them the outside life of mankind did indeed seem to\nbe one of violence and of sin, beset with physical and still more with\nspiritual danger. Heaven, too, was very near to them in those days.\nGod's direct agency was to be seen in the thunder and the rainbow,\nthe whirlwind and the lightning. To the believer, clouds of angels and\nconfessors, and martyrs, armies of the sainted and the saved, were\never stooping over their struggling brethren upon earth, raising,\nencouraging, and supporting them. It was then with a lighter heart and\na stouter courage that the young man turned from the Abbot's room, while\nthe latter, following him to the stair-head, finally commended him to\nthe protection of the holy Julian, patron of travellers.\n\nUnderneath, in the porch of the Abbey, the monks had gathered to give\nhim a last God-speed. Many had brought some parting token by which he\nshould remember them. There was brother Bartholomew with a crucifix of\nrare carved ivory, and brother Luke with a white-backed psalter\nadorned with golden bees, and brother Francis with the \"Slaying of the\nInnocents\" most daintily set forth upon vellum. All these were\nduly packed away deep in the traveller's scrip, and above them old\npippin-faced brother Athanasius had placed a parcel of simnel bread and\nrammel cheese, with a small flask of the famous blue-sealed Abbey wine.\nSo, amid hand-shakings and laughings and blessings, Alleyne Edricson\nturned his back upon Beaulieu.\n\nAt the turn of the road he stopped and gazed back. There was the\nwide-spread building which he knew so well, the Abbot's house, the long\nchurch, the cloisters with their line of arches, all bathed and mellowed\nin the evening sun. There too was the broad sweep of the river Exe, the\nold stone well, the canopied niche of the Virgin, and in the centre of\nall the cluster of white-robed figures who waved their hands to him. A\nsudden mist swam up before the young man's eyes, and he turned away upon\nhis journey with a heavy heart and a choking throat.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III. HOW HORDLE JOHN COZENED THE FULLER OF LYMINGTON.\n\n\nIt is not, however, in the nature of things that a lad of twenty, with\nyoung life glowing in his veins and all the wide world before him,\nshould spend his first hours of freedom in mourning for what he had\nleft. Long ere Alleyne was out of sound of the Beaulieu bells he was\nstriding sturdily along, swinging his staff and whistling as merrily as\nthe birds in the thicket. It was an evening to raise a man's heart. The\nsun shining slantwise through the trees threw delicate traceries across\nthe road, with bars of golden light between. Away in the distance\nbefore and behind, the green boughs, now turning in places to a coppery\nredness, shot their broad arches across the track. The still summer air\nwas heavy with the resinous smell of the great forest. Here and there a\ntawny brook prattled out from among the underwood and lost itself again\nin the ferns and brambles upon the further side. Save the dull piping of\ninsects and the sough of the leaves, there was silence everywhere--the\nsweet restful silence of nature.\n\nAnd yet there was no want of life--the whole wide wood was full of it.\nNow it was a lithe, furtive stoat which shot across the path upon some\nfell errand of its own; then it was a wild cat which squatted upon the\noutlying branch of an oak and peeped at the traveller with a yellow and\ndubious eye. Once it was a wild sow which scuttled out of the bracken,\nwith two young sounders at her heels, and once a lordly red staggard\nwalked daintily out from among the tree trunks, and looked around\nhim with the fearless gaze of one who lived under the King's own high\nprotection. Alleyne gave his staff a merry flourish, however, and the\nred deer bethought him that the King was far off, so streaked away from\nwhence he came.\n\nThe youth had now journeyed considerably beyond the furthest domains of\nthe Abbey. He was the more surprised therefore when, on coming round a\nturn in the path, he perceived a man clad in the familiar garb of the\norder, and seated in a clump of heather by the roadside. Alleyne had\nknown every brother well, but this was a face which was new to him--a\nface which was very red and puffed, working this way and that, as\nthough the man were sore perplexed in his mind. Once he shook both hands\nfuriously in the air, and twice he sprang from his seat and hurried down\nthe road. When he rose, however, Alleyne observed that his robe was much\ntoo long and loose for him in every direction, trailing upon the ground\nand bagging about his ankles, so that even with trussed-up skirts he\ncould make little progress. He ran once, but the long gown clogged him\nso that he slowed down into a shambling walk, and finally plumped into\nthe heather once more.\n\n\"Young friend,\" said he, when Alleyne was abreast of him, \"I fear from\nthy garb that thou canst know little of the Abbey of Beaulieu.\"\n\n\"Then you are in error, friend,\" the clerk answered, \"for I have spent\nall my days within its walls.\"\n\n\"Hast so indeed?\" cried he. \"Then perhaps canst tell me the name of\na great loathly lump of a brother wi' freckled face an' a hand like a\nspade. His eyes were black an' his hair was red an' his voice like\nthe parish bull. I trow that there cannot be two alike in the same\ncloisters.\"\n\n\"That surely can be no other than brother John,\" said Alleyne. \"I trust\nhe has done you no wrong, that you should be so hot against him.\"\n\n\"Wrong, quotha?\" cried the other, jumping out of the heather. \"Wrong!\nwhy he hath stolen every plack of clothing off my back, if that be a\nwrong, and hath left me here in this sorry frock of white falding, so\nthat I have shame to go back to my wife, lest she think that I have\ndonned her old kirtle. Harrow and alas that ever I should have met him!\"\n\n\"But how came this?\" asked the young clerk, who could scarce keep from\nlaughter at the sight of the hot little man so swathed in the great\nwhite cloak.\n\n\"It came in this way,\" he said, sitting down once more: \"I was passing\nthis way, hoping to reach Lymington ere nightfall when I came on this\nred-headed knave seated even where we are sitting now. I uncovered and\nlouted as I passed thinking that he might be a holy man at his orisons,\nbut he called to me and asked me if I had heard speak of the new\nindulgence in favor of the Cistercians. 'Not I,' I answered. 'Then the\nworse for thy soul!' said he; and with that he broke into a long tale\nhow that on account of the virtues of the Abbot Berghersh it had been\ndecreed by the Pope that whoever should wear the habit of a monk of\nBeaulieu for as long as he might say the seven psalms of David should be\nassured of the kingdom of Heaven. When I heard this I prayed him on\nmy knees that he would give me the use of his gown, which after many\ncontentions he at last agreed to do, on my paying him three marks\ntowards the regilding of the image of Laurence the martyr. Having\nstripped his robe, I had no choice but to let him have the wearing of my\ngood leathern jerkin and hose, for, as he said, it was chilling to\nthe blood and unseemly to the eye to stand frockless whilst I made my\norisons. He had scarce got them on, and it was a sore labor, seeing that\nmy inches will scarce match my girth--he had scarce got them on, I say,\nand I not yet at the end of the second psalm, when he bade me do honor\nto my new dress, and with that set off down the road as fast as feet\nwould carry him. For myself, I could no more run than if I had been sown\nin a sack; so here I sit, and here I am like to sit, before I set eyes\nupon my clothes again.\"\n\n\"Nay, friend, take it not so sadly,\" said Alleyne, clapping the\ndisconsolate one upon the shoulder. \"Canst change thy robe for a jerkin\nonce more at the Abbey, unless perchance you have a friend near at\nhand.\"\n\n\"That have I,\" he answered, \"and close; but I care not to go nigh him in\nthis plight, for his wife hath a gibing tongue, and will spread the\ntale until I could not show my face in any market from Fordingbridge\nto Southampton. But if you, fair sir, out of your kind charity would be\npleased to go a matter of two bow-shots out of your way, you would do me\nsuch a service as I could scarce repay.\"\n\n\"With all my heart,\" said Alleyne readily.\n\n\"Then take this pathway on the left, I pray thee, and then the\ndeer-track which passes on the right. You will then see under a great\nbeech-tree the hut of a charcoal-burner. Give him my name, good sir,\nthe name of Peter the fuller, of Lymington, and ask him for a change of\nraiment, that I may pursue my journey without delay. There are reasons\nwhy he would be loth to refuse me.\"\n\nAlleyne started off along the path indicated, and soon found the log-hut\nwhere the burner dwelt. He was away faggot-cutting in the forest, but\nhis wife, a ruddy bustling dame, found the needful garments and tied\nthem into a bundle. While she busied herself in finding and folding\nthem, Alleyne Edricson stood by the open door looking in at her with\nmuch interest and some distrust, for he had never been so nigh to a\nwoman before. She had round red arms, a dress of some sober woollen\nstuff, and a brass brooch the size of a cheese-cake stuck in the front\nof it.\n\n\"Peter the fuller!\" she kept repeating. \"Marry come up! if I were Peter\nthe fuller's wife I would teach him better than to give his clothes to\nthe first knave who asks for them. But he was always a poor, fond, silly\ncreature, was Peter, though we are beholden to him for helping to bury\nour second son Wat, who was a 'prentice to him at Lymington in the year\nof the Black Death. But who are you, young sir?\"\n\n\"I am a clerk on my road from Beaulieu to Minstead.\"\n\n\"Aye, indeed! Hast been brought up at the Abbey then. I could read it\nfrom thy reddened cheek and downcast eye. Hast learned from the monks, I\ntrow, to fear a woman as thou wouldst a lazar-house. Out upon them! that\nthey should dishonor their own mothers by such teaching. A pretty world\nit would be with all the women out of it.\"\n\n\"Heaven forfend that such a thing should come to pass!\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"Amen and amen! But thou art a pretty lad, and the prettier for thy\nmodest ways. It is easy to see from thy cheek that thou hast not spent\nthy days in the rain and the heat and the wind, as my poor Wat hath been\nforced to do.\"\n\n\"I have indeed seen little of life, good dame.\"\n\n\"Wilt find nothing in it to pay for the loss of thy own freshness. Here\nare the clothes, and Peter can leave them when next he comes this way.\nHoly Virgin! see the dust upon thy doublet! It were easy to see that\nthere is no woman to tend to thee. So!--that is better. Now buss me,\nboy.\"\n\nAlleyne stooped and kissed her, for the kiss was the common salutation\nof the age, and, as Erasmus long afterwards remarked, more used in\nEngland than in any other country. Yet it sent the blood to his temples\nagain, and he wondered, as he turned away, what the Abbot Berghersh\nwould have answered to so frank an invitation. He was still tingling\nfrom this new experience when he came out upon the high-road and saw a\nsight which drove all other thoughts from his mind.\n\nSome way down from where he had left him the unfortunate Peter was\nstamping and raving tenfold worse than before. Now, however, instead of\nthe great white cloak, he had no clothes on at all, save a short woollen\nshirt and a pair of leather shoes. Far down the road a long-legged\nfigure was running, with a bundle under one arm and the other hand to\nhis side, like a man who laughs until he is sore.\n\n\"See him!\" yelled Peter. \"Look to him! You shall be my witness. He shall\nsee Winchester jail for this. See where he goes with my cloak under his\narm!\"\n\n\"Who then?\" cried Alleyne.\n\n\"Who but that cursed brother John. He hath not left me clothes enough to\nmake a gallybagger. The double thief hath cozened me out of my gown.\"\n\n\"Stay though, my friend, it was his gown,\" objected Alleyne.\n\n\"It boots not. He hath them all--gown, jerkin, hosen and all. Gramercy\nto him that he left me the shirt and the shoon. I doubt not that he will\nbe back for them anon.\"\n\n\"But how came this?\" asked Alleyne, open-eyed with astonishment.\n\n\"Are those the clothes? For dear charity's sake give them to me. Not the\nPope himself shall have these from me, though he sent the whole college\nof cardinals to ask it. How came it? Why, you had scarce gone ere this\nloathly John came running back again, and, when I oped mouth to reproach\nhim, he asked me whether it was indeed likely that a man of prayer would\nleave his own godly raiment in order to take a layman's jerkin. He\nhad, he said, but gone for a while that I might be the freer for my\ndevotions. On this I plucked off the gown, and he with much show of\nhaste did begin to undo his points; but when I threw his frock down\nhe clipped it up and ran off all untrussed, leaving me in this sorry\nplight. He laughed so the while, like a great croaking frog, that I\nmight have caught him had my breath not been as short as his legs were\nlong.\"\n\nThe young man listened to this tale of wrong with all the seriousness\nthat he could maintain; but at the sight of the pursy red-faced man and\nthe dignity with which he bore him, the laughter came so thick upon him\nthat he had to lean up against a tree-trunk. The fuller looked sadly and\ngravely at him; but finding that he still laughed, he bowed with much\nmock politeness and stalked onwards in his borrowed clothes. Alleyne\nwatched him until he was small in the distance, and then, wiping the\ntears from his eyes, he set off briskly once more upon his journey.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV. HOW THE BAILIFF OF SOUTHAMPTON SLEW THE TWO MASTERLESS MEN.\n\n\nThe road along which he travelled was scarce as populous as most other\nroads in the kingdom, and far less so than those which lie between the\nlarger towns. Yet from time to time Alleyne met other wayfarers, and\nmore than once was overtaken by strings of pack mules and horsemen\njourneying in the same direction as himself. Once a begging friar came\nlimping along in a brown habit, imploring in a most dolorous voice to\ngive him a single groat to buy bread wherewith to save himself from\nimpending death. Alleyne passed him swiftly by, for he had learned from\nthe monks to have no love for the wandering friars, and, besides, there\nwas a great half-gnawed mutton bone sticking out of his pouch to prove\nhim a liar. Swiftly as he went, however, he could not escape the curse\nof the four blessed evangelists which the mendicant howled behind him.\nSo dreadful are his execrations that the frightened lad thrust his\nfingers into his ear-holes, and ran until the fellow was but a brown\nsmirch upon the yellow road.\n\nFurther on, at the edge of the woodland, he came upon a chapman and his\nwife, who sat upon a fallen tree. He had put his pack down as a table,\nand the two of them were devouring a great pasty, and washing it down\nwith some drink from a stone jar. The chapman broke a rough jest as he\npassed, and the woman called shrilly to Alleyne to come and join them,\non which the man, turning suddenly from mirth to wrath, began to belabor\nher with his cudgel. Alleyne hastened on, lest he make more mischief,\nand his heart was heavy as lead within him. Look where he would, he\nseemed to see nothing but injustice and violence and the hardness of man\nto man.\n\nBut even as he brooded sadly over it and pined for the sweet peace of\nthe Abbey, he came on an open space dotted with holly bushes, where was\nthe strangest sight that he had yet chanced upon. Near to the pathway\nlay a long clump of greenery, and from behind this there stuck straight\nup into the air four human legs clad in parti-colored hosen, yellow and\nblack. Strangest of all was when a brisk tune struck suddenly up and\nthe four legs began to kick and twitter in time to the music. Walking on\ntiptoe round the bushes, he stood in amazement to see two men bounding\nabout on their heads, while they played, the one a viol and the other\na pipe, as merrily and as truly as though they were seated in a choir.\nAlleyne crossed himself as he gazed at this unnatural sight, and\ncould scarce hold his ground with a steady face, when the two dancers,\ncatching sight of him, came bouncing in his direction. A spear's length\nfrom him, they each threw a somersault into the air, and came down upon\ntheir feet with smirking faces and their hands over their hearts.\n\n\"A guerdon--a guerdon, my knight of the staring eyes!\" cried one.\n\n\"A gift, my prince!\" shouted the other. \"Any trifle will serve--a purse\nof gold, or even a jewelled goblet.\"\n\nAlleyne thought of what he had read of demoniac possession--the\njumpings, the twitchings, the wild talk. It was in his mind to repeat\nover the exorcism proper to such attacks; but the two burst out\na-laughing at his scared face, and turning on to their heads once more,\nclapped their heels in derision.\n\n\"Hast never seen tumblers before?\" asked the elder, a black-browed,\nswarthy man, as brown and supple as a hazel twig. \"Why shrink from us,\nthen, as though we were the spawn of the Evil One?\"\n\n\"Why shrink, my honey-bird? Why so afeard, my sweet cinnamon?\" exclaimed\nthe other, a loose-jointed lanky youth with a dancing, roguish eye.\n\n\"Truly, sirs, it is a new sight to me,\" the clerk answered. \"When I saw\nyour four legs above the bush I could scarce credit my own eyes. Why is\nit that you do this thing?\"\n\n\"A dry question to answer,\" cried the younger, coming back on to\nhis feet. \"A most husky question, my fair bird! But how? A flask, a\nflask!--by all that is wonderful!\" He shot out his hand as he spoke, and\nplucking Alleyne's bottle out of his scrip, he deftly knocked the neck\noff, and poured the half of it down his throat. The rest he handed to\nhis comrade, who drank the wine, and then, to the clerk's increasing\namazement, made a show of swallowing the bottle, with such skill\nthat Alleyne seemed to see it vanish down his throat. A moment later,\nhowever, he flung it over his head, and caught it bottom downwards upon\nthe calf of his left leg.\n\n\"We thank you for the wine, kind sir,\" said he, \"and for the ready\ncourtesy wherewith you offered it. Touching your question, we may tell\nyou that we are strollers and jugglers, who, having performed with much\napplause at Winchester fair, are now on our way to the great Michaelmas\nmarket at Ringwood. As our art is a very fine and delicate one, however,\nwe cannot let a day go by without exercising ourselves in it, to which\nend we choose some quiet and sheltered spot where we may break our\njourney. Here you find us; and we cannot wonder that you, who are new to\ntumbling, should be astounded, since many great barons, earls, marshals\nand knights, who have wandered as far as the Holy Land, are of one\nmind in saying that they have never seen a more noble or gracious\nperformance. If you will be pleased to sit upon that stump, we will now\ncontinue our exercise.\"\n\nAlleyne sat down willingly as directed with two great bundles on\neither side of him which contained the strollers' dresses--doublets of\nflame-colored silk and girdles of leather, spangled with brass and tin.\nThe jugglers were on their heads once more, bounding about with rigid\nnecks, playing the while in perfect time and tune. It chanced that out\nof one of the bundles there stuck the end of what the clerk saw to be\na cittern, so drawing it forth, he tuned it up and twanged a harmony to\nthe merry lilt which the dancers played. On that they dropped their own\ninstruments, and putting their hands to the ground they hopped about\nfaster and faster, ever shouting to him to play more briskly, until at\nlast for very weariness all three had to stop.\n\n\"Well played, sweet poppet!\" cried the younger. \"Hast a rare touch on\nthe strings.\"\n\n\"How knew you the tune?\" asked the other.\n\n\"I knew it not. I did but follow the notes I heard.\"\n\nBoth opened their eyes at this, and stared at Alleyne with as much\namazement as he had shown at them.\n\n\"You have a fine trick of ear then,\" said one. \"We have long wished to\nmeet such a man. Wilt join us and jog on to Ringwood? Thy duties shall\nbe light, and thou shalt have two-pence a day and meat for supper every\nnight.\"\n\n\"With as much beer as you can put away,\" said the other, \"and a flask of\nGascon wine on Sabbaths.\"\n\n\"Nay, it may not be. I have other work to do. I have tarried with you\nover long,\" quoth Alleyne, and resolutely set forth upon his journey\nonce more. They ran behind him some little way, offering him first\nfourpence and then sixpence a day, but he only smiled and shook his\nhead, until at last they fell away from him. Looking back, he saw that\nthe smaller had mounted on the younger's shoulders, and that they stood\nso, some ten feet high, waving their adieus to him. He waved back to\nthem, and then hastened on, the lighter of heart for having fallen in\nwith these strange men of pleasure.\n\nAlleyne had gone no great distance for all the many small passages that\nhad befallen him. Yet to him, used as he was to a life of such quiet\nthat the failure of a brewing or the altering of an anthem had seemed\nto be of the deepest import, the quick changing play of the lights and\nshadows of life was strangely startling and interesting. A gulf seemed\nto divide this brisk uncertain existence from the old steady round of\nwork and of prayer which he had left behind him. The few hours that had\npassed since he saw the Abbey tower stretched out in his memory until\nthey outgrew whole months of the stagnant life of the cloister. As he\nwalked and munched the soft bread from his scrip, it seemed strange to\nhim to feel that it was still warm from the ovens of Beaulieu.\n\nWhen he passed Penerley, where were three cottages and a barn, he\nreached the edge of the tree country, and found the great barren heath\nof Blackdown stretching in front of him, all pink with heather and\nbronzed with the fading ferns. On the left the woods were still thick,\nbut the road edged away from them and wound over the open. The sun lay\nlow in the west upon a purple cloud, whence it threw a mild, chastening\nlight over the wild moorland and glittered on the fringe of forest\nturning the withered leaves into flakes of dead gold, the brighter for\nthe black depths behind them. To the seeing eye decay is as fair as\ngrowth, and death as life. The thought stole into Alleyne's heart as he\nlooked upon the autumnal country side and marvelled at its beauty. He\nhad little time to dwell upon it however, for there were still six good\nmiles between him and the nearest inn. He sat down by the roadside\nto partake of his bread and cheese, and then with a lighter scrip he\nhastened upon his way.\n\nThere appeared to be more wayfarers on the down than in the forest.\nFirst he passed two Dominicans in their long black dresses, who swept by\nhim with downcast looks and pattering lips, without so much as a glance\nat him. Then there came a gray friar, or minorite, with a good paunch\nupon him, walking slowly and looking about him with the air of a man who\nwas at peace with himself and with all men. He stopped Alleyne to ask\nhim whether it was not true that there was a hostel somewhere in those\nparts which was especially famous for the stewing of eels. The clerk\nhaving made answer that he had heard the eels of Sowley well spoken of,\nthe friar sucked in his lips and hurried forward. Close at his heels\ncame three laborers walking abreast, with spade and mattock over their\nshoulders. They sang some rude chorus right tunefully as they walked,\nbut their English was so coarse and rough that to the ears of a\ncloister-bred man it sounded like a foreign and barbarous tongue. One\nof them carried a young bittern which they had caught upon the moor, and\nthey offered it to Alleyne for a silver groat. Very glad he was to get\nsafely past them, for, with their bristling red beards and their fierce\nblue eyes, they were uneasy men to bargain with upon a lonely moor.\n\nYet it is not always the burliest and the wildest who are the most to\nbe dreaded. The workers looked hungrily at him, and then jogged onwards\nupon their way in slow, lumbering Saxon style. A worse man to deal with\nwas a wooden-legged cripple who came hobbling down the path, so weak and\nso old to all appearance that a child need not stand in fear of him.\nYet when Alleyne had passed him, of a sudden, out of pure devilment, he\nscreamed out a curse at him, and sent a jagged flint stone hurtling past\nhis ear. So horrid was the causeless rage of the crooked creature, that\nthe clerk came over a cold thrill, and took to his heels until he was\nout of shot from stone or word. It seemed to him that in this country\nof England there was no protection for a man save that which lay in the\nstrength of his own arm and the speed of his own foot. In the cloisters\nhe had heard vague talk of the law--the mighty law which was higher than\nprelate or baron, yet no sign could he see of it. What was the benefit\nof a law written fair upon parchment, he wondered, if there were no\nofficers to enforce it. As it fell out, however, he had that very\nevening, ere the sun had set, a chance of seeing how stern was the grip\nof the English law when it did happen to seize the offender.\n\nA mile or so out upon the moor the road takes a very sudden dip into a\nhollow, with a peat-colored stream running swiftly down the centre\nof it. To the right of this stood, and stands to this day, an ancient\nbarrow, or burying mound, covered deeply in a bristle of heather and\nbracken. Alleyne was plodding down the slope upon one side, when he saw\nan old dame coming towards him upon the other, limping with weariness\nand leaning heavily upon a stick. When she reached the edge of the\nstream she stood helpless, looking to right and to left for some ford.\nWhere the path ran down a great stone had been fixed in the centre of\nthe brook, but it was too far from the bank for her aged and uncertain\nfeet. Twice she thrust forward at it, and twice she drew back, until at\nlast, giving up in despair, she sat herself down by the brink and\nwrung her hands wearily. There she still sat when Alleyne reached the\ncrossing.\n\n\"Come, mother,\" quoth he, \"it is not so very perilous a passage.\"\n\n\"Alas! good youth,\" she answered, \"I have a humor in the eyes, and\nthough I can see that there is a stone there I can by no means be sure\nas to where it lies.\"\n\n\"That is easily amended,\" said he cheerily, and picking her lightly up,\nfor she was much worn with time, he passed across with her. He could\nnot but observe, however, that as he placed her down her knees seemed to\nfail her, and she could scarcely prop herself up with her staff.\n\n\"You are weak, mother,\" said he. \"Hast journeyed far, I wot.\"\n\n\"From Wiltshire, friend,\" said she, in a quavering voice; \"three days\nhave I been on the road. I go to my son, who is one of the King's\nregarders at Brockenhurst. He has ever said that he would care for me in\nmine old age.\"\n\n\"And rightly too, mother, since you cared for him in his youth. But when\nhave you broken fast?\"\n\n\"At Lyndenhurst; but alas! my money is at an end, and I could but get a\ndish of bran-porridge from the nunnery. Yet I trust that I may be able\nto reach Brockenhurst to-night, where I may have all that heart can\ndesire; for oh! sir, but my son is a fine man, with a kindly heart of\nhis own, and it is as good as food to me to think that he should have a\ndoublet of Lincoln green to his back and be the King's own paid man.\"\n\n\"It is a long road yet to Brockenhurst,\" said Alleyne; \"but here is such\nbread and cheese as I have left, and here, too, is a penny which may\nhelp you to supper. May God be with you!\"\n\n\"May God be with you, young man!\" she cried. \"May He make your heart as\nglad as you have made mine!\" She turned away, still mumbling blessings,\nand Alleyne saw her short figure and her long shadow stumbling slowly up\nthe slope.\n\nHe was moving away himself, when his eyes lit upon a strange sight, and\none which sent a tingling through his skin. Out of the tangled scrub on\nthe old overgrown barrow two human faces were looking out at him; the\nsinking sun glimmered full upon them, showing up every line and feature.\nThe one was an oldish man with a thin beard, a crooked nose, and a broad\nred smudge from a birth-mark over his temple; the other was a negro, a\nthing rarely met in England at that day, and rarer still in the quiet\nsouthland parts. Alleyne had read of such folk, but had never seen one\nbefore, and could scarce take his eyes from the fellow's broad pouting\nlip and shining teeth. Even as he gazed, however, the two came writhing\nout from among the heather, and came down towards him with such a\nguilty, slinking carriage, that the clerk felt that there was no good in\nthem, and hastened onwards upon his way.\n\nHe had not gained the crown of the slope, when he heard a sudden scuffle\nbehind him and a feeble voice bleating for help. Looking round, there\nwas the old dame down upon the roadway, with her red whimple flying on\nthe breeze, while the two rogues, black and white, stooped over her,\nwresting away from her the penny and such other poor trifles as were\nworth the taking. At the sight of her thin limbs struggling in weak\nresistance, such a glow of fierce anger passed over Alleyne as set his\nhead in a whirl. Dropping his scrip, he bounded over the stream once\nmore, and made for the two villains, with his staff whirled over his\nshoulder and his gray eyes blazing with fury.\n\nThe robbers, however, were not disposed to leave their victim until they\nhad worked their wicked will upon her. The black man, with the woman's\ncrimson scarf tied round his swarthy head, stood forward in the centre\nof the path, with a long dull-colored knife in his hand, while the\nother, waving a ragged cudgel, cursed at Alleyne and dared him to\ncome on. His blood was fairly aflame, however, and he needed no such\nchallenge. Dashing at the black man, he smote at him with such good will\nthat the other let his knife tinkle into the roadway, and hopped howling\nto a safer distance. The second rogue, however, made of sterner stuff,\nrushed in upon the clerk, and clipped him round the waist with a grip\nlike a bear, shouting the while to his comrade to come round and stab\nhim in the back. At this the negro took heart of grace, and picking up\nhis dagger again he came stealing with prowling step and murderous eye,\nwhile the two swayed backwards and forwards, staggering this way and\nthat. In the very midst of the scuffle, however, whilst Alleyne braced\nhimself to feel the cold blade between his shoulders, there came a\nsudden scurry of hoofs, and the black man yelled with terror and ran\nfor his life through the heather. The man with the birth-mark, too,\nstruggled to break away, and Alleyne heard his teeth chatter and felt\nhis limbs grow limp to his hand. At this sign of coming aid the clerk\nheld on the tighter, and at last was able to pin his man down and\nglanced behind him to see where all the noise was coming from.\n\nDown the slanting road there was riding a big, burly man, clad in a\ntunic of purple velvet and driving a great black horse as hard as\nit could gallop. He leaned well over its neck as he rode, and made a\nheaving with his shoulders at every bound as though he were lifting the\nsteed instead of it carrying him. In the rapid glance Alleyne saw that\nhe had white doeskin gloves, a curling white feather in his flat velvet\ncap, and a broad gold, embroidered baldric across his bosom. Behind him\nrode six others, two and two, clad in sober brown jerkins, with the\nlong yellow staves of their bows thrusting out from behind their right\nshoulders. Down the hill they thundered, over the brook and up to the\nscene of the contest.\n\n\"Here is one!\" said the leader, springing down from his reeking horse,\nand seizing the white rogue by the edge of his jerkin. \"This is one of\nthem. I know him by that devil's touch upon his brow. Where are your\ncords, Peterkin? So! Bind him hand and foot. His last hour has come. And\nyou, young man, who may you be?\"\n\n\"I am a clerk, sir, travelling from Beaulieu.\"\n\n\"A clerk!\" cried the other. \"Art from Oxenford or from Cambridge? Hast\nthou a letter from the chancellor of thy college giving thee a permit\nto beg? Let me see thy letter.\" He had a stern, square face, with bushy\nside whiskers and a very questioning eye.\n\n\"I am from Beaulieu Abbey, and I have no need to beg,\" said Alleyne, who\nwas all of a tremble now that the ruffle was over.\n\n\"The better for thee,\" the other answered. \"Dost know who I am?\"\n\n\"No, sir, I do not.\"\n\n\"I am the law!\"--nodding his head solemnly. \"I am the law of England\nand the mouthpiece of his most gracious and royal majesty, Edward the\nThird.\"\n\nAlleyne louted low to the King's representative. \"Truly you came in good\ntime, honored sir,\" said he. \"A moment later and they would have slain\nme.\"\n\n\"But there should be another one,\" cried the man in the purple coat.\n\"There should be a black man. A shipman with St. Anthony's fire, and a\nblack man who had served him as cook--those are the pair that we are in\nchase of.\"\n\n\"The black man fled over to that side,\" said Alleyne, pointing towards\nthe barrow.\n\n\"He could not have gone far, sir bailiff,\" cried one of the archers,\nunslinging his bow. \"He is in hiding somewhere, for he knew well, black\npaynim as he is, that our horses' four legs could outstrip his two.\"\n\n\"Then we shall have him,\" said the other. \"It shall never be said,\nwhilst I am bailiff of Southampton, that any waster, riever, draw-latch\nor murtherer came scathless away from me and my posse. Leave that rogue\nlying. Now stretch out in line, my merry ones, with arrow on string, and\nI shall show you such sport as only the King can give. You on the left,\nHowett, and Thomas of Redbridge upon the right. So! Beat high and low\namong the heather, and a pot of wine to the lucky marksman.\"\n\nAs it chanced, however, the searchers had not far to seek. The negro had\nburrowed down into his hiding-place upon the barrow, where he might have\nlain snug enough, had it not been for the red gear upon his head. As\nhe raised himself to look over the bracken at his enemies, the staring\ncolor caught the eye of the bailiff, who broke into a long screeching\nwhoop and spurred forward sword in hand. Seeing himself discovered,\nthe man rushed out from his hiding-place, and bounded at the top of\nhis speed down the line of archers, keeping a good hundred paces to the\nfront of them. The two who were on either side of Alleyne bent their\nbows as calmly as though they were shooting at the popinjay at the\nvillage fair.\n\n\"Seven yards windage, Hal,\" said one, whose hair was streaked with gray.\n\n\"Five,\" replied the other, letting loose his string. Alleyne gave a gulp\nin his throat, for the yellow streak seemed to pass through the man; but\nhe still ran forward.\n\n\"Seven, you jack-fool,\" growled the first speaker, and his bow twanged\nlike a harp-string. The black man sprang high up into the air, and\nshot out both his arms and his legs, coming down all a-sprawl among\nthe heather. \"Right under the blade bone!\" quoth the archer, sauntering\nforward for his arrow.\n\n\"The old hound is the best when all is said,\" quoth the bailiff of\nSouthampton, as they made back for the roadway. \"That means a quart of\nthe best malmsey in Southampton this very night, Matthew Atwood. Art\nsure that he is dead?\"\n\n\"Dead as Pontius Pilate, worshipful sir.\"\n\n\"It is well. Now, as to the other knave. There are trees and to spare\nover yonder, but we have scarce leisure to make for them. Draw thy\nsword, Thomas of Redbridge, and hew me his head from his shoulders.\"\n\n\"A boon, gracious sir, a boon!\" cried the condemned man.\n\n\"What then?\" asked the bailiff.\n\n\"I will confess to my crime. It was indeed I and the black cook, both\nfrom the ship 'La Rose de Gloire,' of Southampton, who did set upon the\nFlanders merchant and rob him of his spicery and his mercery, for which,\nas we well know, you hold a warrant against us.\"\n\n\"There is little merit in this confession,\" quoth the bailiff sternly.\n\"Thou hast done evil within my bailiwick, and must die.\"\n\n\"But, sir,\" urged Alleyne, who was white to the lips at these bloody\ndoings, \"he hath not yet come to trial.\"\n\n\"Young clerk,\" said the bailiff, \"you speak of that of which you know\nnothing. It is true that he hath not come to trial, but the trial hath\ncome to him. He hath fled the law and is beyond its pale. Touch not that\nwhich is no concern of thine. But what is this boon, rogue, which you\nwould crave?\"\n\n\"I have in my shoe, most worshipful sir, a strip of wood which belonged\nonce to the bark wherein the blessed Paul was dashed up against the\nisland of Melita. I bought it for two rose nobles from a shipman who\ncame from the Levant. The boon I crave is that you will place it in my\nhands and let me die still grasping it. In this manner, not only shall\nmy own eternal salvation be secured, but thine also, for I shall never\ncease to intercede for thee.\"\n\nAt the command of the bailiff they plucked off the fellow's shoe, and\nthere sure enough at the side of the instep, wrapped in a piece of fine\nsendall, lay a long, dark splinter of wood. The archers doffed caps at\nthe sight of it, and the bailiff crossed himself devoutly as he handed\nit to the robber.\n\n\"If it should chance,\" he said, \"that through the surpassing merits of\nthe blessed Paul your sin-stained soul should gain a way into paradise,\nI trust that you will not forget that intercession which you have\npromised. Bear in mind too, that it is Herward the bailiff for whom you\npray, and not Herward the sheriff, who is my uncle's son. Now, Thomas, I\npray you dispatch, for we have a long ride before us and sun has already\nset.\"\n\nAlleyne gazed upon the scene--the portly velvet-clad official, the knot\nof hard-faced archers with their hands to the bridles of their horses,\nthe thief with his arms trussed back and his doublet turned down upon\nhis shoulders. By the side of the track the old dame was standing,\nfastening her red whimple once more round her head. Even as he looked\none of the archers drew his sword with a sharp whirr of steel and stept\nup to the lost man. The clerk hurried away in horror; but, ere he\nhad gone many paces, he heard a sudden, sullen thump, with a choking,\nwhistling sound at the end of it. A minute later the bailiff and four\nof his men rode past him on their journey back to Southampton, the other\ntwo having been chosen as grave-diggers. As they passed Alleyne saw that\none of the men was wiping his sword-blade upon the mane of his horse.\nA deadly sickness came over him at the sight, and sitting down by the\nwayside he burst out weeping, with his nerves all in a jangle. It was a\nterrible world thought he, and it was hard to know which were the most\nto be dreaded, the knaves or the men of the law.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V. HOW A STRANGE COMPANY GATHERED AT THE \"PIED MERLIN.\"\n\n\nThe night had already fallen, and the moon was shining between the rifts\nof ragged, drifting clouds, before Alleyne Edricson, footsore and weary\nfrom the unwonted exercise, found himself in front of the forest inn\nwhich stood upon the outskirts of Lyndhurst. The building was long and\nlow, standing back a little from the road, with two flambeaux blazing on\neither side of the door as a welcome to the traveller. From one window\nthere thrust forth a long pole with a bunch of greenery tied to the end\nof it--a sign that liquor was to be sold within. As Alleyne walked up to\nit he perceived that it was rudely fashioned out of beams of wood, with\ntwinkling lights all over where the glow from within shone through the\nchinks. The roof was poor and thatched; but in strange contrast to\nit there ran all along under the eaves a line of wooden shields, most\ngorgeously painted with chevron, bend, and saltire, and every heraldic\ndevice. By the door a horse stood tethered, the ruddy glow beating\nstrongly upon his brown head and patient eyes, while his body stood back\nin the shadow.\n\nAlleyne stood still in the roadway for a few minutes reflecting\nupon what he should do. It was, he knew, only a few miles further to\nMinstead, where his brother dwelt. On the other hand, he had never seen\nthis brother since childhood, and the reports which had come to his ears\nconcerning him were seldom to his advantage. By all accounts he was a\nhard and a bitter man.\n\nIt might be an evil start to come to his door so late and claim the\nshelter of his roof. Better to sleep here at this inn, and then travel\non to Minstead in the morning. If his brother would take him in, well\nand good.\n\nHe would bide with him for a time and do what he might to serve him.\nIf, on the other hand, he should have hardened his heart against him,\nhe could only go on his way and do the best he might by his skill as\na craftsman and a scrivener. At the end of a year he would be free\nto return to the cloisters, for such had been his father's bequest. A\nmonkish upbringing, one year in the world after the age of twenty, and\nthen a free selection one way or the other--it was a strange course\nwhich had been marked out for him. Such as it was, however, he had no\nchoice but to follow it, and if he were to begin by making a friend\nof his brother he had best wait until morning before he knocked at his\ndwelling.\n\nThe rude plank door was ajar, but as Alleyne approached it there came\nfrom within such a gust of rough laughter and clatter of tongues that\nhe stood irresolute upon the threshold. Summoning courage, however, and\nreflecting that it was a public dwelling, in which he had as much right\nas any other man, he pushed it open and stepped into the common room.\n\nThough it was an autumn evening and somewhat warm, a huge fire of heaped\nbillets of wood crackled and sparkled in a broad, open grate, some of\nthe smoke escaping up a rude chimney, but the greater part rolling out\ninto the room, so that the air was thick with it, and a man coming from\nwithout could scarce catch his breath. On this fire a great cauldron\nbubbled and simmered, giving forth a rich and promising smell. Seated\nround it were a dozen or so folk, of all ages and conditions, who set\nup such a shout as Alleyne entered that he stood peering at them through\nthe smoke, uncertain what this riotous greeting might portend.\n\n\"A rouse! A rouse!\" cried one rough looking fellow in a tattered jerkin.\n\"One more round of mead or ale and the score to the last comer.\"\n\n\"'Tis the law of the 'Pied Merlin,'\" shouted another. \"Ho there, Dame\nEliza! Here is fresh custom come to the house, and not a drain for the\ncompany.\"\n\n\"I will take your orders, gentles; I will assuredly take your orders,\"\nthe landlady answered, bustling in with her hands full of leathern\ndrinking-cups. \"What is it that you drink, then? Beer for the lads of\nthe forest, mead for the gleeman, strong waters for the tinker, and wine\nfor the rest. It is an old custom of the house, young sir. It has been\nthe use at the 'Pied Merlin' this many a year back that the company\nshould drink to the health of the last comer. Is it your pleasure to\nhumor it?\"\n\n\"Why, good dame,\" said Alleyne, \"I would not offend the customs of your\nhouse, but it is only sooth when I say that my purse is a thin one. As\nfar as two pence will go, however, I shall be right glad to do my part.\"\n\n\"Plainly said and bravely spoken, my suckling friar,\" roared a deep\nvoice, and a heavy hand fell upon Alleyne's shoulder. Looking up, he saw\nbeside him his former cloister companion the renegade monk, Hordle John.\n\n\"By the thorn of Glastonbury! ill days are coming upon Beaulieu,\" said\nhe. \"Here they have got rid in one day of the only two men within their\nwalls--for I have had mine eyes upon thee, youngster, and I know that\nfor all thy baby-face there is the making of a man in thee. Then there\nis the Abbot, too. I am no friend of his, nor he of mine; but he has\nwarm blood in his veins. He is the only man left among them. The others,\nwhat are they?\"\n\n\"They are holy men,\" Alleyne answered gravely.\n\n\"Holy men? Holy cabbages! Holy bean-pods! What do they do but live and\nsuck in sustenance and grow fat? If that be holiness, I could show you\nhogs in this forest who are fit to head the calendar. Think you it was\nfor such a life that this good arm was fixed upon my shoulder, or that\nhead placed upon your neck? There is work in the world, man, and it is\nnot by hiding behind stone walls that we shall do it.\"\n\n\"Why, then, did you join the brothers?\" asked Alleyne.\n\n\"A fair enough question; but it is as fairly answered. I joined them\nbecause Margery Alspaye, of Bolder, married Crooked Thomas of Ringwood,\nand left a certain John of Hordle in the cold, for that he was a\nranting, roving blade who was not to be trusted in wedlock. That was\nwhy, being fond and hot-headed, I left the world; and that is why,\nhaving had time to take thought, I am right glad to find myself back in\nit once more. Ill betide the day that ever I took off my yeoman's jerkin\nto put on the white gown!\"\n\nWhilst he was speaking the landlady came in again, bearing a broad\nplatter, upon which stood all the beakers and flagons charged to the\nbrim with the brown ale or the ruby wine. Behind her came a maid with\na high pile of wooden plates, and a great sheaf of spoons, one of which\nshe handed round to each of the travellers. Two of the company, who were\ndressed in the weather-stained green doublet of foresters, lifted the\nbig pot off the fire, and a third, with a huge pewter ladle, served out\na portion of steaming collops to each guest. Alleyne bore his share and\nhis ale-mug away with him to a retired trestle in the corner, where he\ncould sup in peace and watch the strange scene, which was so different\nto those silent and well-ordered meals to which he was accustomed.\n\nThe room was not unlike a stable. The low ceiling, smoke-blackened and\ndingy, was pierced by several square trap-doors with rough-hewn ladders\nleading up to them. The walls of bare unpainted planks were studded\nhere and there with great wooden pins, placed at irregular intervals\nand heights, from which hung over-tunics, wallets, whips, bridles, and\nsaddles. Over the fireplace were suspended six or seven shields of\nwood, with coats-of-arms rudely daubed upon them, which showed by their\nvarying degrees of smokiness and dirt that they had been placed there\nat different periods. There was no furniture, save a single long\ndresser covered with coarse crockery, and a number of wooden benches and\ntrestles, the legs of which sank deeply into the soft clay floor, while\nthe only light, save that of the fire, was furnished by three torches\nstuck in sockets on the wall, which flickered and crackled, giving\nforth a strong resinous odor. All this was novel and strange to the\ncloister-bred youth; but most interesting of all was the motley circle\nof guests who sat eating their collops round the blaze. They were a\nhumble group of wayfarers, such as might have been found that night\nin any inn through the length and breadth of England; but to him they\nrepresented that vague world against which he had been so frequently and\nso earnestly warned. It did not seem to him from what he could see of it\nto be such a very wicked place after all.\n\nThree or four of the men round the fire were evidently underkeepers\nand verderers from the forest, sunburned and bearded, with the quick\nrestless eye and lithe movements of the deer among which they lived.\nClose to the corner of the chimney sat a middle-aged gleeman, clad in a\nfaded garb of Norwich cloth, the tunic of which was so outgrown that it\ndid not fasten at the neck and at the waist. His face was swollen and\ncoarse, and his watery protruding eyes spoke of a life which never\nwandered very far from the wine-pot. A gilt harp, blotched with many\nstains and with two of its strings missing, was tucked under one of his\narms, while with the other he scooped greedily at his platter. Next to\nhim sat two other men of about the same age, one with a trimming of fur\nto his coat, which gave him a dignity which was evidently dearer to him\nthan his comfort, for he still drew it round him in spite of the hot\nglare of the faggots. The other, clad in a dirty russet suit with a long\nsweeping doublet, had a cunning, foxy face with keen, twinkling eyes and\na peaky beard. Next to him sat Hordle John, and beside him three other\nrough unkempt fellows with tangled beards and matted hair--free laborers\nfrom the adjoining farms, where small patches of freehold property\nhad been suffered to remain scattered about in the heart of the royal\ndemesne. The company was completed by a peasant in a rude dress of\nundyed sheepskin, with the old-fashioned galligaskins about his legs,\nand a gayly dressed young man with striped cloak jagged at the edges\nand parti-colored hosen, who looked about him with high disdain upon his\nface, and held a blue smelling-flask to his nose with one hand, while he\nbrandished a busy spoon with the other. In the corner a very fat man was\nlying all a-sprawl upon a truss, snoring stertorously, and evidently in\nthe last stage of drunkenness.\n\n\"That is Wat the limner,\" quoth the landlady, sitting down beside\nAlleyne, and pointing with the ladle to the sleeping man. \"That is he\nwho paints the signs and the tokens. Alack and alas that ever I should\nhave been fool enough to trust him! Now, young man, what manner of a\nbird would you suppose a pied merlin to be--that being the proper sign\nof my hostel?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Alleyne, \"a merlin is a bird of the same form as an eagle or\na falcon. I can well remember that learned brother Bartholomew, who is\ndeep in all the secrets of nature, pointed one out to me as we walked\ntogether near Vinney Ridge.\"\n\n\"A falcon or an eagle, quotha? And pied, that is of two several colors.\nSo any man would say except this barrel of lies. He came to me, look\nyou, saying that if I would furnish him with a gallon of ale, wherewith\nto strengthen himself as he worked, and also the pigments and a board,\nhe would paint for me a noble pied merlin which I might hang along with\nthe blazonry over my door. I, poor simple fool, gave him the ale and all\nthat he craved, leaving him alone too, because he said that a man's mind\nmust be left untroubled when he had great work to do. When I came back\nthe gallon jar was empty, and he lay as you see him, with the board in\nfront of him with this sorry device.\" She raised up a panel which was\nleaning against the wall, and showed a rude painting of a scraggy and\nangular fowl, with very long legs and a spotted body.\n\n\"Was that,\" she asked, \"like the bird which thou hast seen?\"\n\nAlleyne shook his head, smiling.\n\n\"No, nor any other bird that ever wagged a feather. It is most like a\nplucked pullet which has died of the spotted fever. And scarlet too!\nWhat would the gentles Sir Nicholas Boarhunte, or Sir Bernard Brocas, of\nRoche Court, say if they saw such a thing--or, perhaps, even the King's\nown Majesty himself, who often has ridden past this way, and who loves\nhis falcons as he loves his sons? It would be the downfall of my house.\"\n\n\"The matter is not past mending,\" said Alleyne. \"I pray you, good dame,\nto give me those three pigment-pots and the brush, and I shall try\nwhether I cannot better this painting.\"\n\nDame Eliza looked doubtfully at him, as though fearing some other\nstratagem, but, as he made no demand for ale, she finally brought the\npaints, and watched him as he smeared on his background, talking the\nwhile about the folk round the fire.\n\n\"The four forest lads must be jogging soon,\" she said. \"They bide at\nEmery Down, a mile or more from here. Yeomen prickers they are, who tend\nto the King's hunt. The gleeman is called Floyting Will. He comes from\nthe north country, but for many years he hath gone the round of the\nforest from Southampton to Christchurch. He drinks much and pays little\nbut it would make your ribs crackle to hear him sing the 'Jest of Hendy\nTobias.' Mayhap he will sing it when the ale has warmed him.\"\n\n\"Who are those next to him?\" asked Alleyne, much interested. \"He of the\nfur mantle has a wise and reverent face.\"\n\n\"He is a seller of pills and salves, very learned in humors, and rheums,\nand fluxes, and all manner of ailments. He wears, as you perceive, the\nvernicle of Sainted Luke, the first physician, upon his sleeve. May good\nSt. Thomas of Kent grant that it may be long before either I or mine\nneed his help! He is here to-night for herbergage, as are the others\nexcept the foresters. His neighbor is a tooth-drawer. That bag at his\ngirdle is full of the teeth that he drew at Winchester fair. I warrant\nthat there are more sound ones than sorry, for he is quick at his work\nand a trifle dim in the eye. The lusty man next him with the red head\nI have not seen before. The four on this side are all workers, three\nof them in the service of the bailiff of Sir Baldwin Redvers, and the\nother, he with the sheepskin, is, as I hear, a villein from the midlands\nwho hath run from his master. His year and day are well-nigh up, when he\nwill be a free man.\"\n\n\"And the other?\" asked Alleyne in a whisper. \"He is surely some very\ngreat man, for he looks as though he scorned those who were about him.\"\n\nThe landlady looked at him in a motherly way and shook her head. \"You\nhave had no great truck with the world,\" she said, \"or you would have\nlearned that it is the small men and not the great who hold their noses\nin the air. Look at those shields upon my wall and under my eaves. Each\nof them is the device of some noble lord or gallant knight who hath\nslept under my roof at one time or another. Yet milder men or easier to\nplease I have never seen: eating my bacon and drinking my wine with a\nmerry face, and paying my score with some courteous word or jest which\nwas dearer to me than my profit. Those are the true gentles. But your\nchapman or your bearward will swear that there is a lime in the wine,\nand water in the ale, and fling off at the last with a curse instead of\na blessing. This youth is a scholar from Cambrig, where men are wont to\nbe blown out by a little knowledge, and lose the use of their hands in\nlearning the laws of the Romans. But I must away to lay down the beds.\nSo may the saints keep you and prosper you in your undertaking!\"\n\nThus left to himself, Alleyne drew his panel of wood where the light of\none of the torches would strike full upon it, and worked away with all\nthe pleasure of the trained craftsman, listening the while to the talk\nwhich went on round the fire. The peasant in the sheepskins, who had\nsat glum and silent all evening, had been so heated by his flagon of ale\nthat he was talking loudly and angrily with clenched hands and flashing\neyes.\n\n\"Sir Humphrey Tennant of Ashby may till his own fields for me,\" he\ncried. \"The castle has thrown its shadow upon the cottage over long.\nFor three hundred years my folk have swinked and sweated, day in and day\nout, to keep the wine on the lord's table and the harness on the lord's\nback. Let him take off his plates and delve himself, if delving must be\ndone.\"\n\n\"A proper spirit, my fair son!\" said one of the free laborers. \"I would\nthat all men were of thy way of thinking.\"\n\n\"He would have sold me with his acres,\" the other cried, in a\nvoice which was hoarse with passion. \"'The man, the woman and their\nlitter'--so ran the words of the dotard bailiff. Never a bullock on the\nfarm was sold more lightly. Ha! he may wake some black night to find\nthe flames licking about his ears--for fire is a good friend to the\npoor man, and I have seen a smoking heap of ashes where over night there\nstood just such another castlewick as Ashby.\"\n\n\"This is a lad of mettle!\" shouted another of the laborers. \"He dares to\ngive tongue to what all men think. Are we not all from Adam's loins, all\nwith flesh and blood, and with the same mouth that must needs have food\nand drink? Where all this difference then between the ermine cloak and\nthe leathern tunic, if what they cover is the same?\"\n\n\"Aye, Jenkin,\" said another, \"our foeman is under the stole and the\nvestment as much as under the helmet and plate of proof. We have as much\nto fear from the tonsure as from the hauberk. Strike at the noble and\nthe priest shrieks, strike at priest and the noble lays his hand upon\nglaive. They are twin thieves who live upon our labor.\"\n\n\"It would take a clever man to live upon thy labor, Hugh,\" remarked one\nof the foresters, \"seeing that the half of thy time is spent in swilling\nmead at the 'Pied Merlin.'\"\n\n\"Better that than stealing the deer that thou art placed to guard, like\nsome folk I know.\"\n\n\"If you dare open that swine's mouth against me,\" shouted the woodman,\n\"I'll crop your ears for you before the hangman has the doing of it,\nthou long-jawed lackbrain.\"\n\n\"Nay, gentles, gentles!\" cried Dame Eliza, in a singsong heedless voice,\nwhich showed that such bickerings were nightly things among her guests.\n\"No brawling or brabbling, gentles! Take heed to the good name of the\nhouse.\"\n\n\"Besides, if it comes to the cropping of ears, there are other folk who\nmay say their say,\" quoth the third laborer. \"We are all freemen, and\nI trow that a yeoman's cudgel is as good as a forester's knife. By\nSt. Anselm! it would be an evil day if we had to bend to our master's\nservants as well as to our masters.\"\n\n\"No man is my master save the King,\" the woodman answered. \"Who is\nthere, save a false traitor, who would refuse to serve the English\nking?\"\n\n\"I know not about the English king,\" said the man Jenkin. \"What sort of\nEnglish king is it who cannot lay his tongue to a word of English? You\nmind last year when he came down to Malwood, with his inner marshal and\nhis outer marshal, his justiciar, his seneschal, and his four and twenty\nguardsmen. One noontide I was by Franklin Swinton's gate, when up he\nrides with a yeoman pricker at his heels. 'Ouvre,' he cried, 'ouvre,' or\nsome such word, making signs for me to open the gate; and then 'Merci,'\nas though he were adrad of me. And you talk of an English king?\"\n\n\"I do not marvel at it,\" cried the Cambrig scholar, speaking in the high\ndrawling voice which was common among his class. \"It is not a tongue\nfor men of sweet birth and delicate upbringing. It is a foul, snorting,\nsnarling manner of speech. For myself, I swear by the learned Polycarp\nthat I have most ease with Hebrew, and after that perchance with\nArabian.\"\n\n\"I will not hear a word said against old King Ned,\" cried Hordle John\nin a voice like a bull. \"What if he is fond of a bright eye and a saucy\nface. I know one of his subjects who could match him at that. If\nhe cannot speak like an Englishman I trow that he can fight like an\nEnglishman, and he was hammering at the gates of Paris while ale-house\ntopers were grutching and grumbling at home.\"\n\nThis loud speech, coming from a man of so formidable an appearance,\nsomewhat daunted the disloyal party, and they fell into a sullen\nsilence, which enabled Alleyne to hear something of the talk which was\ngoing on in the further corner between the physician, the tooth-drawer\nand the gleeman.\n\n\"A raw rat,\" the man of drugs was saying, \"that is what it is ever my\nuse to order for the plague--a raw rat with its paunch cut open.\"\n\n\"Might it not be broiled, most learned sir?\" asked the tooth-drawer. \"A\nraw rat sounds a most sorry and cheerless dish.\"\n\n\"Not to be eaten,\" cried the physician, in high disdain. \"Why should any\nman eat such a thing?\"\n\n\"Why indeed?\" asked the gleeman, taking a long drain at his tankard.\n\n\"It is to be placed on the sore or swelling. For the rat, mark you,\nbeing a foul-living creature, hath a natural drawing or affinity for\nall foul things, so that the noxious humors pass from the man into the\nunclean beast.\"\n\n\"Would that cure the black death, master?\" asked Jenkin.\n\n\"Aye, truly would it, my fair son.\"\n\n\"Then I am right glad that there were none who knew of it. The black\ndeath is the best friend that ever the common folk had in England.\"\n\n\"How that then?\" asked Hordle John.\n\n\"Why, friend, it is easy to see that you have not worked with your hands\nor you would not need to ask. When half the folk in the country were\ndead it was then that the other half could pick and choose who they\nwould work for, and for what wage. That is why I say that the murrain\nwas the best friend that the borel folk ever had.\"\n\n\"True, Jenkin,\" said another workman; \"but it is not all good that is\nbrought by it either. We well know that through it corn-land has been\nturned into pasture, so that flocks of sheep with perchance a single\nshepherd wander now where once a hundred men had work and wage.\"\n\n\"There is no great harm in that,\" remarked the tooth-drawer, \"for the\nsheep give many folk their living. There is not only the herd, but the\nshearer and brander, and then the dresser, the curer, the dyer, the\nfuller, the webster, the merchant, and a score of others.\"\n\n\"If it come to that.\" said one of the foresters, \"the tough meat of them\nwill wear folks teeth out, and there is a trade for the man who can draw\nthem.\"\n\nA general laugh followed this sally at the dentist's expense, in the\nmidst of which the gleeman placed his battered harp upon his knee, and\nbegan to pick out a melody upon the frayed strings.\n\n\"Elbow room for Floyting Will!\" cried the woodmen. \"Twang us a merry\nlilt.\"\n\n\"Aye, aye, the 'Lasses of Lancaster,'\" one suggested.\n\n\"Or 'St. Simeon and the Devil.'\"\n\n\"Or the 'Jest of Hendy Tobias.'\"\n\nTo all these suggestions the jongleur made no response, but sat with his\neye fixed abstractedly upon the ceiling, as one who calls words to his\nmind. Then, with a sudden sweep across the strings, he broke out into\na song so gross and so foul that ere he had finished a verse the\npure-minded lad sprang to his feet with the blood tingling in his face.\n\n\"How can you sing such things?\" he cried. \"You, too, an old man who\nshould be an example to others.\"\n\nThe wayfarers all gazed in the utmost astonishment at the interruption.\n\n\"By the holy Dicon of Hampole! our silent clerk has found his tongue,\"\nsaid one of the woodmen. \"What is amiss with the song then? How has it\noffended your babyship?\"\n\n\"A milder and better mannered song hath never been heard within these\nwalls,\" cried another. \"What sort of talk is this for a public inn?\"\n\n\"Shall it be a litany, my good clerk?\" shouted a third; \"or would a hymn\nbe good enough to serve?\"\n\nThe jongleur had put down his harp in high dudgeon. \"Am I to be preached\nto by a child?\" he cried, staring across at Alleyne with an inflamed and\nangry countenance. \"Is a hairless infant to raise his tongue against me,\nwhen I have sung in every fair from Tweed to Trent, and have twice been\nnamed aloud by the High Court of the Minstrels at Beverley? I shall sing\nno more to-night.\"\n\n\"Nay, but you will so,\" said one of the laborers. \"Hi, Dame Eliza, bring\na stoup of your best to Will to clear his throat. Go forward with thy\nsong, and if our girl-faced clerk does not love it he can take to the\nroad and go whence he came.\"\n\n\"Nay, but not too last,\" broke in Hordle John. \"There are two words in\nthis matter. It may be that my little comrade has been over quick in\nreproof, he having gone early into the cloisters and seen little of the\nrough ways and words of the world. Yet there is truth in what he says,\nfor, as you know well, the song was not of the cleanest. I shall stand\nby him, therefore, and he shall neither be put out on the road, nor\nshall his ears be offended indoors.\"\n\n\"Indeed, your high and mighty grace,\" sneered one of the yeomen, \"have\nyou in sooth so ordained?\"\n\n\"By the Virgin!\" said a second, \"I think that you may both chance to\nfind yourselves upon the road before long.\"\n\n\"And so belabored as to be scarce able to crawl along it,\" cried a\nthird.\n\n\"Nay, I shall go! I shall go!\" said Alleyne hurriedly, as Hordle John\nbegan to slowly roll up his sleeve, and bare an arm like a leg of\nmutton. \"I would not have you brawl about me.\"\n\n\"Hush! lad,\" he whispered, \"I count them not a fly. They may find they\nhave more tow on their distaff than they know how to spin. Stand thou\nclear and give me space.\"\n\nBoth the foresters and the laborers had risen from their bench, and Dame\nEliza and the travelling doctor had flung themselves between the two\nparties with soft words and soothing gestures, when the door of the\n\"Pied Merlin\" was flung violently open, and the attention of the company\nwas drawn from their own quarrel to the new-comer who had burst so\nunceremoniously upon them.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI. HOW SAMKIN AYLWARD WAGERED HIS FEATHER-BED.\n\n\nHe was a middle-sized man, of most massive and robust build, with an\narching chest and extraordinary breadth of shoulder. His shaven face was\nas brown as a hazel-nut, tanned and dried by the weather, with harsh,\nwell-marked features, which were not improved by a long white scar which\nstretched from the corner of his left nostril to the angle of the jaw.\nHis eyes were bright and searching, with something of menace and of\nauthority in their quick glitter, and his mouth was firm-set and hard,\nas befitted one who was wont to set his face against danger. A straight\nsword by his side and a painted long-bow jutting over his shoulder\nproclaimed his profession, while his scarred brigandine of chain-mail\nand his dinted steel cap showed that he was no holiday soldier, but one\nwho was even now fresh from the wars. A white surcoat with the lion\nof St. George in red upon the centre covered his broad breast, while a\nsprig of new-plucked broom at the side of his head-gear gave a touch of\ngayety and grace to his grim, war-worn equipment.\n\n\"Ha!\" he cried, blinking like an owl in the sudden glare. \"Good even\nto you, comrades! Hola! a woman, by my soul!\" and in an instant he had\nclipped Dame Eliza round the waist and was kissing her violently. His\neye happening to wander upon the maid, however, he instantly abandoned\nthe mistress and danced off after the other, who scurried in confusion\nup one of the ladders, and dropped the heavy trap-door upon her pursuer.\nHe then turned back and saluted the landlady once more with the utmost\nrelish and satisfaction.\n\n\"La petite is frightened,\" said he. \"Ah, c'est l'amour, l'amour! Curse\nthis trick of French, which will stick to my throat. I must wash it out\nwith some good English ale. By my hilt! camarades, there is no drop of\nFrench blood in my body, and I am a true English bowman, Samkin Aylward\nby name; and I tell you, mes amis, that it warms my very heart-roots to\nset my feet on the dear old land once more. When I came off the galley\nat Hythe, this very day, I down on my bones, and I kissed the good brown\nearth, as I kiss thee now, ma belle, for it was eight long years since\nI had seen it. The very smell of it seemed life to me. But where are my\nsix rascals? Hola, there! En avant!\"\n\nAt the order, six men, dressed as common drudges, marched solemnly\ninto the room, each bearing a huge bundle upon his head. They formed in\nmilitary line, while the soldier stood in front of them with stern eyes,\nchecking off their several packages.\n\n\"Number one--a French feather-bed with the two counter-panes of white\nsendall,\" said he.\n\n\"Here, worthy sir,\" answered the first of the bearers, laying a great\npackage down in the corner.\n\n\"Number two--seven ells of red Turkey cloth and nine ells of cloth of\ngold. Put it down by the other. Good dame, I prythee give each of these\nmen a bottrine of wine or a jack of ale. Three--a full piece of white\nGenoan velvet with twelve ells of purple silk. Thou rascal, there is\ndirt on the hem! Thou hast brushed it against some wall, coquin!\"\n\n\"Not I, most worthy sir,\" cried the carrier, shrinking away from the\nfierce eyes of the bowman.\n\n\"I say yes, dog! By the three kings! I have seen a man gasp out his last\nbreath for less. Had you gone through the pain and unease that I have\ndone to earn these things you would be at more care. I swear by my ten\nfinger-bones that there is not one of them that hath not cost its weight\nin French blood! Four--an incense-boat, a ewer of silver, a gold buckle\nand a cope worked in pearls. I found them, camarades, at the Church of\nSt. Denis in the harrying of Narbonne, and I took them away with me lest\nthey fall into the hands of the wicked. Five--a cloak of fur turned\nup with minever, a gold goblet with stand and cover, and a box of\nrose-colored sugar. See that you lay them together. Six--a box of\nmonies, three pounds of Limousine gold-work, a pair of boots, silver\ntagged, and, lastly, a store of naping linen. So, the tally is complete!\nHere is a groat apiece, and you may go.\"\n\n\"Go whither, worthy sir?\" asked one of the carriers.\n\n\"Whither? To the devil if ye will. What is it to me? Now, ma belle, to\nsupper. A pair of cold capons, a mortress of brawn, or what you will,\nwith a flask or two of the right Gascony. I have crowns in my pouch,\nmy sweet, and I mean to spend them. Bring in wine while the food is\ndressing. Buvons my brave lads; you shall each empty a stoup with me.\"\n\nHere was an offer which the company in an English inn at that or any\nother date are slow to refuse. The flagons were re-gathered and came\nback with the white foam dripping over their edges. Two of the woodmen\nand three of the laborers drank their portions off hurriedly and trooped\noff together, for their homes were distant and the hour late. The\nothers, however, drew closer, leaving the place of honor to the right\nof the gleeman to the free-handed new-comer. He had thrown off his steel\ncap and his brigandine, and had placed them with his sword, his quiver\nand his painted long-bow, on the top of his varied heap of plunder in\nthe corner. Now, with his thick and somewhat bowed legs stretched in\nfront of the blaze, his green jerkin thrown open, and a great quart\npot held in his corded fist, he looked the picture of comfort and of\ngood-fellowship. His hard-set face had softened, and the thick crop of\ncrisp brown curls which had been hidden by his helmet grew low upon his\nmassive neck. He might have been forty years of age, though hard toil\nand harder pleasure had left their grim marks upon his features. Alleyne\nhad ceased painting his pied merlin, and sat, brush in hand, staring\nwith open eyes at a type of man so strange and so unlike any whom he had\nmet. Men had been good or had been bad in his catalogue, but here was a\nman who was fierce one instant and gentle the next, with a curse on his\nlips and a smile in his eye. What was to be made of such a man as that?\n\nIt chanced that the soldier looked up and saw the questioning glance\nwhich the young clerk threw upon him. He raised his flagon and drank to\nhim, with a merry flash of his white teeth.\n\n\"A toi, mon garcon,\" he cried. \"Hast surely never seen a man-at-arms,\nthat thou shouldst stare so?\"\n\n\"I never have,\" said Alleyne frankly, \"though I have oft heard talk of\ntheir deeds.\"\n\n\"By my hilt!\" cried the other, \"if you were to cross the narrow sea you\nwould find them as thick as bees at a tee-hole. Couldst not shoot a\nbolt down any street of Bordeaux, I warrant, but you would pink archer,\nsquire, or knight. There are more breastplates than gaberdines to be\nseen, I promise you.\"\n\n\"And where got you all these pretty things?\" asked Hordle John, pointing\nat the heap in the corner.\n\n\"Where there is as much more waiting for any brave lad to pick it up.\nWhere a good man can always earn a good wage, and where he need look\nupon no man as his paymaster, but just reach his hand out and help\nhimself. Aye, it is a goodly and a proper life. And here I drink to\nmine old comrades, and the saints be with them! Arouse all together,\nmes enfants, under pain of my displeasure. To Sir Claude Latour and the\nWhite Company!\"\n\n\"Sir Claude Latour and the White Company!\" shouted the travellers,\ndraining off their goblets.\n\n\"Well quaffed, mes braves! It is for me to fill your cups again, since\nyou have drained them to my dear lads of the white jerkin. Hola! mon\nange, bring wine and ale. How runs the old stave?--\n\n        We'll drink all together\n        To the gray goose feather\n        And the land where the gray goose flew.\"\n\nHe roared out the catch in a harsh, unmusical voice, and ended with a\nshout of laughter. \"I trust that I am a better bowman than a minstrel,\"\nsaid he.\n\n\"Methinks I have some remembrance of the lilt,\" remarked the gleeman,\nrunning his fingers over the strings. \"Hoping that it will give thee no\noffence, most holy sir\"--with a vicious snap at Alleyne--\"and with the\nkind permit of the company, I will even venture upon it.\"\n\nMany a time in the after days Alleyne Edricson seemed to see that scene,\nfor all that so many which were stranger and more stirring were soon\nto crowd upon him. The fat, red-faced gleeman, the listening group, the\narcher with upraised finger beating in time to the music, and the huge\nsprawling figure of Hordle John, all thrown into red light and black\nshadow by the flickering fire in the centre--memory was to come often\nlovingly back to it. At the time he was lost in admiration at the deft\nway in which the jongleur disguised the loss of his two missing strings,\nand the lusty, hearty fashion in which he trolled out his little ballad\nof the outland bowmen, which ran in some such fashion as this:\n\n          What of the bow?\n            The bow was made in England:\n        Of true wood, of yew wood,\n          The wood of English bows;\n            So men who are free\n            Love the old yew tree\n        And the land where the yew tree grows.\n\n          What of the cord?\n            The cord was made in England:\n        A rough cord, a tough cord,\n          A cord that bowmen love;\n            So we'll drain our jacks\n            To the English flax\n        And the land where the hemp was wove.\n\n          What of the shaft?\n            The shaft was cut in England:\n        A long shaft, a strong shaft,\n          Barbed and trim and true;\n            So we'll drink all together\n            To the gray goose feather\n        And the land where the gray goose flew.\n\n          What of the men?\n            The men were bred in England:\n        The bowman--the yeoman--\n          The lads of dale and fell\n            Here's to you--and to you;\n            To the hearts that are true\n        And the land where the true hearts dwell.\n\n\"Well sung, by my hilt!\" shouted the archer in high delight. \"Many a\nnight have I heard that song, both in the old war-time and after in the\ndays of the White Company, when Black Simon of Norwich would lead the\nstave, and four hundred of the best bowmen that ever drew string would\ncome roaring in upon the chorus. I have seen old John Hawkwood, the same\nwho has led half the Company into Italy, stand laughing in his beard as\nhe heard it, until his plates rattled again. But to get the full smack\nof it ye must yourselves be English bowmen, and be far off upon an\noutland soil.\"\n\nWhilst the song had been singing Dame Eliza and the maid had placed a\nboard across two trestles, and had laid upon it the knife, the spoon,\nthe salt, the tranchoir of bread, and finally the smoking dish which\nheld the savory supper. The archer settled himself to it like one who\nhad known what it was to find good food scarce; but his tongue still\nwent as merrily as his teeth.\n\n\"It passes me,\" he cried, \"how all you lusty fellows can bide scratching\nyour backs at home when there are such doings over the seas. Look at\nme--what have I to do? It is but the eye to the cord, the cord to the\nshaft, and the shaft to the mark. There is the whole song of it. It is\nbut what you do yourselves for pleasure upon a Sunday evening at the\nparish village butts.\"\n\n\"And the wage?\" asked a laborer.\n\n\"You see what the wage brings,\" he answered. \"I eat of the best, and I\ndrink deep. I treat my friend, and I ask no friend to treat me. I clap\na silk gown on my girl's back. Never a knight's lady shall be better\nbetrimmed and betrinketed. How of all that, mon garcon? And how of the\nheap of trifles that you can see for yourselves in yonder corner? They\nare from the South French, every one, upon whom I have been making\nwar. By my hilt! camarades, I think that I may let my plunder speak for\nitself.\"\n\n\"It seems indeed to be a goodly service,\" said the tooth-drawer.\n\n\"Tete bleu! yes, indeed. Then there is the chance of a ransom. Why, look\nyou, in the affair at Brignais some four years back, when the companies\nslew James of Bourbon, and put his army to the sword, there was scarce a\nman of ours who had not count, baron, or knight. Peter Karsdale, who\nwas but a common country lout newly brought over, with the English fleas\nstill hopping under his doublet, laid his great hands upon the Sieur\nAmaury de Chatonville, who owns half Picardy, and had five thousand\ncrowns out of him, with his horse and harness. 'Tis true that a French\nwench took it all off Peter as quick as the Frenchman paid it; but what\nthen? By the twang of string! it would be a bad thing if money was not\nmade to be spent; and how better than on woman--eh, ma belle?\"\n\n\"It would indeed be a bad thing if we had not our brave archers to bring\nwealth and kindly customs into the country,\" quoth Dame Eliza, on whom\nthe soldier's free and open ways had made a deep impression.\n\n\"A toi, ma cherie!\" said he, with his hand over his heart. \"Hola! there\nis la petite peeping from behind the door. A toi, aussi, ma petite! Mon\nDieu! but the lass has a good color!\"\n\n\"There is one thing, fair sir,\" said the Cambridge student in his\npiping voice, \"which I would fain that you would make more clear. As\nI understand it, there was peace made at the town of Bretigny some six\nyears back between our most gracious monarch and the King of the French.\nThis being so, it seems most passing strange that you should talk so\nloudly of war and of companies when there is no quarrel between the\nFrench and us.\"\n\n\"Meaning that I lie,\" said the archer, laying down his knife.\n\n\"May heaven forfend!\" cried the student hastily. \"_Magna est veritas sed\nrara_, which means in the Latin tongue that archers are all honorable\nmen. I come to you seeking knowledge, for it is my trade to learn.\"\n\n\"I fear that you are yet a 'prentice to that trade,\" quoth the soldier;\n\"for there is no child over the water but could answer what you ask.\nKnow then that though there may be peace between our own provinces and\nthe French, yet within the marches of France there is always war, for\nthe country is much divided against itself, and is furthermore harried\nby bands of flayers, skinners, Brabacons, tardvenus, and the rest of\nthem. When every man's grip is on his neighbor's throat, and every\nfive-sous-piece of a baron is marching with tuck of drum to fight whom\nhe will, it would be a strange thing if five hundred brave English boys\ncould not pick up a living. Now that Sir John Hawkwood hath gone with\nthe East Anglian lads and the Nottingham woodmen into the service of the\nMarquis of Montferrat to fight against the Lord of Milan, there are but\nten score of us left, yet I trust that I may be able to bring some back\nwith me to fill the ranks of the White Company. By the tooth of Peter!\nit would be a bad thing if I could not muster many a Hamptonshire man\nwho would be ready to strike in under the red flag of St. George, and\nthe more so if Sir Nigel Loring, of Christchurch, should don hauberk\nonce more and take the lead of us.\"\n\n\"Ah, you would indeed be in luck then,\" quoth a woodman; \"for it is said\nthat, setting aside the prince, and mayhap good old Sir John Chandos,\nthere was not in the whole army a man of such tried courage.\"\n\n\"It is sooth, every word of it,\" the archer answered. \"I have seen him\nwith these two eyes in a stricken field, and never did man carry himself\nbetter. Mon Dieu! yes, ye would not credit it to look at him, or to\nhearken to his soft voice, but from the sailing from Orwell down to\nthe foray to Paris, and that is clear twenty years, there was not a\nskirmish, onfall, sally, bushment, escalado or battle, but Sir Nigel was\nin the heart of it. I go now to Christchurch with a letter to him from\nSir Claude Latour to ask him if he will take the place of Sir John\nHawkwood; and there is the more chance that he will if I bring one or\ntwo likely men at my heels. What say you, woodman: wilt leave the bucks\nto loose a shaft at a nobler mark?\"\n\nThe forester shook his head. \"I have wife and child at Emery Down,\"\nquoth he; \"I would not leave them for such a venture.\"\n\n\"You, then, young sir?\" asked the archer.\n\n\"Nay, I am a man of peace,\" said Alleyne Edricson. \"Besides, I have\nother work to do.\"\n\n\"Peste!\" growled the soldier, striking his flagon on the board until the\ndishes danced again. \"What, in the name of the devil, hath come over\nthe folk? Why sit ye all moping by the fireside, like crows round a dead\nhorse, when there is man's work to be done within a few short leagues of\nye? Out upon you all, as a set of laggards and hang-backs! By my hilt I\nbelieve that the men of England are all in France already, and that what\nis left behind are in sooth the women dressed up in their paltocks and\nhosen.\"\n\n\"Archer,\" quoth Hordle John, \"you have lied more than once and more than\ntwice; for which, and also because I see much in you to dislike, I am\nsorely tempted to lay you upon your back.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! then, I have found a man at last!\" shouted the bowman.\n\"And, 'fore God, you are a better man than I take you for if you can lay\nme on my back, mon garcon. I have won the ram more times than there are\ntoes to my feet, and for seven long years I have found no man in the\nCompany who could make my jerkin dusty.\"\n\n\"We have had enough bobance and boasting,\" said Hordle John, rising and\nthrowing off his doublet. \"I will show you that there are better men\nleft in England than ever went thieving to France.\"\n\n\"Pasques Dieu!\" cried the archer, loosening his jerkin, and eyeing his\nfoeman over with the keen glance of one who is a judge of manhood.\n\"I have only once before seen such a body of a man. By your leave, my\nred-headed friend, I should be right sorry to exchange buffets with\nyou; and I will allow that there is no man in the Company who would\npull against you on a rope; so let that be a salve to your pride. On\nthe other hand I should judge that you have led a life of ease for some\nmonths back, and that my muscle is harder than your own. I am ready to\nwager upon myself against you if you are not afeard.\"\n\n\"Afeard, thou lurden!\" growled big John. \"I never saw the face yet of\nthe man that I was afeard of. Come out, and we shall see who is the\nbetter man.\"\n\n\"But the wager?\"\n\n\"I have nought to wager. Come out for the love and the lust of the\nthing.\"\n\n\"Nought to wager!\" cried the soldier. \"Why, you have that which I covet\nabove all things. It is that big body of thine that I am after. See,\nnow, mon garcon. I have a French feather-bed there, which I have been at\npains to keep these years back. I had it at the sacking of Issodun, and\nthe King himself hath not such a bed. If you throw me, it is thine; but,\nif I throw you, then you are under a vow to take bow and bill and hie\nwith me to France, there to serve in the White Company as long as we be\nenrolled.\"\n\n\"A fair wager!\" cried all the travellers, moving back their benches and\ntrestles, so as to give fair field for the wrestlers.\n\n\"Then you may bid farewell to your bed, soldier,\" said Hordle John.\n\n\"Nay; I shall keep the bed, and I shall have you to France in spite\nof your teeth, and you shall live to thank me for it. How shall it be,\nthen, mon enfant? Collar and elbow, or close-lock, or catch how you\ncan?\"\n\n\"To the devil with your tricks,\" said John, opening and shutting his\ngreat red hands. \"Stand forth, and let me clip thee.\"\n\n\"Shalt clip me as best you can then,\" quoth the archer, moving out into\nthe open space, and keeping a most wary eye upon his opponent. He had\nthrown off his green jerkin, and his chest was covered only by a pink\nsilk jupon, or undershirt, cut low in the neck and sleeveless. Hordle\nJohn was stripped from his waist upwards, and his huge body, with his\ngreat muscles swelling out like the gnarled roots of an oak, towered\nhigh above the soldier. The other, however, though near a foot shorter,\nwas a man of great strength; and there was a gloss upon his white skin\nwhich was wanting in the heavier limbs of the renegade monk. He was\nquick on his feet, too, and skilled at the game; so that it was clear,\nfrom the poise of head and shine of eye, that he counted the chances to\nbe in his favor. It would have been hard that night, through the whole\nlength of England, to set up a finer pair in face of each other.\n\nBig John stood waiting in the centre with a sullen, menacing eye, and\nhis red hair in a bristle, while the archer paced lightly and swiftly to\nthe right and the left with crooked knee and hands advanced. Then with a\nsudden dash, so swift and fierce that the eye could scarce follow it, he\nflew in upon his man and locked his leg round him. It was a grip that,\nbetween men of equal strength, would mean a fall; but Hordle John tore\nhim off from him as he might a rat, and hurled him across the room, so\nthat his head cracked up against the wooden wall.\n\n\"Ma foi!\" cried the bowman, passing his fingers through his curls, \"you\nwere not far from the feather-bed then, mon gar. A little more and this\ngood hostel would have a new window.\"\n\nNothing daunted, he approached his man once more, but this time with\nmore caution than before. With a quick feint he threw the other off his\nguard, and then, bounding upon him, threw his legs round his waist and\nhis arms round his bull-neck, in the hope of bearing him to the ground\nwith the sudden shock. With a bellow of rage, Hordle John squeezed him\nlimp in his huge arms; and then, picking him up, cast him down upon the\nfloor with a force which might well have splintered a bone or two,\nhad not the archer with the most perfect coolness clung to the other's\nforearms to break his fall. As it was, he dropped upon his feet and\nkept his balance, though it sent a jar through his frame which set every\njoint a-creaking. He bounded back from his perilous foeman; but the\nother, heated by the bout, rushed madly after him, and so gave the\npractised wrestler the very vantage for which he had planned. As big\nJohn flung himself upon him, the archer ducked under the great red hands\nthat clutched for him, and, catching his man round the thighs, hurled\nhim over his shoulder--helped as much by his own mad rush as by the\ntrained strength of the heave. To Alleyne's eye, it was as if John had\ntaken unto himself wings and flown. As he hurtled through the air, with\ngiant limbs revolving, the lad's heart was in his mouth; for surely no\nman ever yet had such a fall and came scathless out of it. In truth,\nhardy as the man was, his neck had been assuredly broken had he not\npitched head first on the very midriff of the drunken artist, who was\nslumbering so peacefully in the corner, all unaware of these stirring\ndoings. The luckless limner, thus suddenly brought out from his dreams,\nsat up with a piercing yell, while Hordle John bounded back into the\ncircle almost as rapidly as he had left it.\n\n\"One more fall, by all the saints!\" he cried, throwing out his arms.\n\n\"Not I,\" quoth the archer, pulling on his clothes, \"I have come well out\nof the business. I would sooner wrestle with the great bear of Navarre.\"\n\n\"It was a trick,\" cried John.\n\n\"Aye was it. By my ten finger-bones! it is a trick that will add a\nproper man to the ranks of the Company.\"\n\n\"Oh, for that,\" said the other, \"I count it not a fly; for I had\npromised myself a good hour ago that I should go with thee, since the\nlife seems to be a goodly and proper one. Yet I would fain have had the\nfeather-bed.\"\n\n\"I doubt it not, mon ami,\" quoth the archer, going back to his tankard.\n\"Here is to thee, lad, and may we be good comrades to each other! But,\nhola! what is it that ails our friend of the wrathful face?\"\n\nThe unfortunate limner had been sitting up rubbing himself ruefully\nand staring about with a vacant gaze, which showed that he knew neither\nwhere he was nor what had occurred to him. Suddenly, however, a flash\nof intelligence had come over his sodden features, and he rose and\nstaggered for the door. \"'Ware the ale!\" he said in a hoarse whisper,\nshaking a warning finger at the company. \"Oh, holy Virgin, 'ware the\nale!\" and slapping his hands to his injury, he flitted off into the\ndarkness, amid a shout of laughter, in which the vanquished joined as\nmerrily as the victor. The remaining forester and the two laborers\nwere also ready for the road, and the rest of the company turned to the\nblankets which Dame Eliza and the maid had laid out for them upon the\nfloor. Alleyne, weary with the unwonted excitements of the day, was soon\nin a deep slumber broken only by fleeting visions of twittering legs,\ncursing beggars, black robbers, and the many strange folk whom he had\nmet at the \"Pied Merlin.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII. HOW THE THREE COMRADES JOURNEYED THROUGH THE WOODLANDS.\n\n\nAt early dawn the country inn was all alive, for it was rare indeed\nthat an hour of daylight would be wasted at a time when lighting was so\nscarce and dear. Indeed, early as it was when Dame Eliza began to stir,\nit seemed that others could be earlier still, for the door was ajar,\nand the learned student of Cambridge had taken himself off, with a\nmind which was too intent upon the high things of antiquity to stoop\nto consider the four-pence which he owed for bed and board. It was the\nshrill out-cry of the landlady when she found her loss, and the clucking\nof the hens, which had streamed in through the open door, that first\nbroke in upon the slumbers of the tired wayfarers.\n\nOnce afoot, it was not long before the company began to disperse. A\nsleek mule with red trappings was brought round from some neighboring\nshed for the physician, and he ambled away with much dignity upon his\nroad to Southampton. The tooth-drawer and the gleeman called for a cup\nof small ale apiece, and started off together for Ringwood fair, the old\njongleur looking very yellow in the eye and swollen in the face after\nhis overnight potations. The archer, however, who had drunk more than\nany man in the room, was as merry as a grig, and having kissed the\nmatron and chased the maid up the ladder once more, he went out to the\nbrook, and came back with the water dripping from his face and hair.\n\n\"Hola! my man of peace,\" he cried to Alleyne, \"whither are you bent this\nmorning?\"\n\n\"To Minstead,\" quoth he. \"My brother Simon Edricson is socman there, and\nI go to bide with him for a while. I prythee, let me have my score, good\ndame.\"\n\n\"Score, indeed!\" cried she, standing with upraised hands in front of the\npanel on which Alleyne had worked the night before. \"Say, rather what\nit is that I owe to thee, good youth. Aye, this is indeed a pied merlin,\nand with a leveret under its claws, as I am a living woman. By the rood\nof Waltham! but thy touch is deft and dainty.\"\n\n\"And see the red eye of it!\" cried the maid.\n\n\"Aye, and the open beak.\"\n\n\"And the ruffled wing,\" added Hordle John.\n\n\"By my hilt!\" cried the archer, \"it is the very bird itself.\"\n\nThe young clerk flushed with pleasure at this chorus of praise, rude and\nindiscriminate indeed, and yet so much heartier and less grudging than\nany which he had ever heard from the critical brother Jerome, or the\nshort-spoken Abbot. There was, it would seem, great kindness as well as\ngreat wickedness in this world, of which he had heard so little that was\ngood. His hostess would hear nothing of his paying either for bed or\nfor board, while the archer and Hordle John placed a hand upon either\nshoulder and led him off to the board, where some smoking fish, a dish\nof spinach, and a jug of milk were laid out for their breakfast.\n\n\"I should not be surprised to learn, mon camarade,\" said the soldier, as\nhe heaped a slice of fish upon Alleyne's tranchoir of bread, \"that you\ncould read written things, since you are so ready with your brushes and\npigments.\"\n\n\"It would be shame to the good brothers of Beaulieu if I could not,\" he\nanswered, \"seeing that I have been their clerk this ten years back.\"\n\nThe bowman looked at him with great respect. \"Think of that!\" said he.\n\"And you with not a hair to your face, and a skin like a girl. I can\nshoot three hundred and fifty paces with my little popper there, and\nfour hundred and twenty with the great war-bow; yet I can make nothing\nof this, nor read my own name if you were to set 'Sam Aylward' up\nagainst me. In the whole Company there was only one man who could read,\nand he fell down a well at the taking of Ventadour, which proves that\nthe thing is not suited to a soldier, though most needful to a clerk.\"\n\n\"I can make some show at it,\" said big John; \"though I was scarce long\nenough among the monks to catch the whole trick of it.\n\n\"Here, then, is something to try upon,\" quoth the archer, pulling a\nsquare of parchment from the inside of his tunic. It was tied securely\nwith a broad band of purple silk, and firmly sealed at either end with a\nlarge red seal. John pored long and earnestly over the inscription upon\nthe back, with his brows bent as one who bears up against great mental\nstrain.\n\n\"Not having read much of late,\" he said, \"I am loth to say too much\nabout what this may be. Some might say one thing and some another, just\nas one bowman loves the yew, and a second will not shoot save with the\nash. To me, by the length and the look of it, I should judge this to be\na verse from one of the Psalms.\"\n\nThe bowman shook his head. \"It is scarce likely,\" he said, \"that Sir\nClaude Latour should send me all the way across seas with nought more\nweighty than a psalm-verse. You have clean overshot the butts this time,\nmon camarade. Give it to the little one. I will wager my feather-bed\nthat he makes more sense of it.\"\n\n\"Why, it is written in the French tongue,\" said Alleyne, \"and in a\nright clerkly hand. This is how it runs: 'A le moult puissant et moult\nhonorable chevalier, Sir Nigel Loring de Christchurch, de son tres\nfidele ami Sir Claude Latour, capitaine de la Compagnie blanche,\nchatelain de Biscar, grand seigneur de Montchateau, vavaseur de le\nrenomme Gaston, Comte de Foix, tenant les droits de la haute justice, de\nla milieu, et de la basse.' Which signifies in our speech: 'To the very\npowerful and very honorable knight, Sir Nigel Loring of Christchurch,\nfrom his very faithful friend Sir Claude Latour, captain of the White\nCompany, chatelain of Biscar, grand lord of Montchateau and vassal to\nthe renowned Gaston, Count of Foix, who holds the rights of the high\njustice, the middle and the low.'\"\n\n\"Look at that now!\" cried the bowman in triumph. \"That is just what he\nwould have said.\"\n\n\"I can see now that it is even so,\" said John, examining the parchment\nagain. \"Though I scarce understand this high, middle and low.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! you would understand it if you were Jacques Bonhomme. The\nlow justice means that you may fleece him, and the middle that you may\ntorture him, and the high that you may slay him. That is about the truth\nof it. But this is the letter which I am to take; and since the platter\nis clean it is time that we trussed up and were afoot. You come with\nme, mon gros Jean; and as to you, little one, where did you say that you\njourneyed?\"\n\n\"To Minstead.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes. I know this forest country well, though I was born myself\nin the Hundred of Easebourne, in the Rape of Chichester, hard by the\nvillage of Midhurst. Yet I have not a word to say against the Hampton\nmen, for there are no better comrades or truer archers in the whole\nCompany than some who learned to loose the string in these very parts.\nWe shall travel round with you to Minstead lad, seeing that it is little\nout of our way.\"\n\n\"I am ready,\" said Alleyne, right pleased at the thought of such company\nupon the road.\n\n\"So am not I. I must store my plunder at this inn, since the hostess is\nan honest woman. Hola! ma cherie, I wish to leave with you my gold-work,\nmy velvet, my silk, my feather bed, my incense-boat, my ewer, my naping\nlinen, and all the rest of it. I take only the money in a linen bag,\nand the box of rose colored sugar which is a gift from my captain to the\nLady Loring. Wilt guard my treasure for me?\"\n\n\"It shall be put in the safest loft, good archer. Come when you may, you\nshall find it ready for you.\"\n\n\"Now, there is a true friend!\" cried the bowman, taking her hand. \"There\nis a bonne amie! English land and English women, say I, and French wine\nand French plunder. I shall be back anon, mon ange. I am a lonely man,\nmy sweeting, and I must settle some day when the wars are over and done.\nMayhap you and I----Ah, mechante, mechante! There is la petite peeping\nfrom behind the door. Now, John, the sun is over the trees; you must be\nbrisker than this when the bugleman blows 'Bows and Bills.'\"\n\n\"I have been waiting this time back,\" said Hordle John gruffly.\n\n\"Then we must be off. Adieu, ma vie! The two livres shall settle the\nscore and buy some ribbons against the next kermesse. Do not forget Sam\nAylward, for his heart shall ever be thine alone--and thine, ma petite!\nSo, marchons, and may St. Julian grant us as good quarters elsewhere!\"\n\nThe sun had risen over Ashurst and Denny woods, and was shining\nbrightly, though the eastern wind had a sharp flavor to it, and the\nleaves were flickering thickly from the trees. In the High Street of\nLyndhurst the wayfarers had to pick their way, for the little town\nwas crowded with the guardsmen, grooms, and yeomen prickers who were\nattached to the King's hunt. The King himself was staying at Castle\nMalwood, but several of his suite had been compelled to seek such\nquarters as they might find in the wooden or wattle-and-daub cottages of\nthe village. Here and there a small escutcheon, peeping from a\nglassless window, marked the night's lodging of knight or baron. These\ncoats-of-arms could be read, where a scroll would be meaningless, and\nthe bowman, like most men of his age, was well versed in the common\nsymbols of heraldry.\n\n\"There is the Saracen's head of Sir Bernard Brocas,\" quoth he. \"I saw\nhim last at the ruffle at Poictiers some ten years back, when he bore\nhimself like a man. He is the master of the King's horse, and can sing\na right jovial stave, though in that he cannot come nigh to Sir John\nChandos, who is first at the board or in the saddle. Three martlets on a\nfield azure, that must be one of the Luttrells. By the crescent upon it,\nit should be the second son of old Sir Hugh, who had a bolt through his\nankle at the intaking of Romorantin, he having rushed into the fray ere\nhis squire had time to clasp his solleret to his greave. There too is\nthe hackle which is the old device of the De Brays. I have served under\nSir Thomas de Bray, who was as jolly as a pie, and a lusty swordsman\nuntil he got too fat for his harness.\"\n\nSo the archer gossiped as the three wayfarers threaded their way among\nthe stamping horses, the busy grooms, and the knots of pages and squires\nwho disputed over the merits of their masters' horses and deer-hounds.\nAs they passed the old church, which stood upon a mound at the left-hand\nside of the village street the door was flung open, and a stream of\nworshippers wound down the sloping path, coming from the morning mass,\nall chattering like a cloud of jays. Alleyne bent knee and doffed hat at\nthe sight of the open door; but ere he had finished an ave his comrades\nwere out of sight round the curve of the path, and he had to run to\novertake them.\n\n\"What!\" he said, \"not one word of prayer before God's own open house?\nHow can ye hope for His blessing upon the day?\"\n\n\"My friend,\" said Hordle John, \"I have prayed so much during the last\ntwo months, not only during the day, but at matins, lauds, and the like,\nwhen I could scarce keep my head upon my shoulders for nodding, that I\nfeel that I have somewhat over-prayed myself.\"\n\n\"How can a man have too much religion?\" cried Alleyne earnestly. \"It is\nthe one thing that availeth. A man is but a beast as he lives from day\nto day, eating and drinking, breathing and sleeping. It is only when\nhe raises himself, and concerns himself with the immortal spirit within\nhim, that he becomes in very truth a man. Bethink ye how sad a thing\nit would be that the blood of the Redeemer should be spilled to no\npurpose.\"\n\n\"Bless the lad, if he doth not blush like any girl, and yet preach like\nthe whole College of Cardinals,\" cried the archer.\n\n\"In truth I blush that any one so weak and so unworthy as I should\ntry to teach another that which he finds it so passing hard to follow\nhimself.\"\n\n\"Prettily said, mon garcon. Touching that same slaying of the Redeemer,\nit was a bad business. A good padre in France read to us from a scroll\nthe whole truth of the matter. The soldiers came upon him in the garden.\nIn truth, these Apostles of His may have been holy men, but they were of\nno great account as men-at-arms. There was one, indeed, Sir Peter, who\nsmote out like a true man; but, unless he is belied, he did but clip\na varlet's ear, which was no very knightly deed. By these ten\nfinger-bones! had I been there with Black Simon of Norwich, and but one\nscore picked men of the Company, we had held them in play. Could we do\nno more, we had at least filled the false knight, Sir Judas, so full of\nEnglish arrows that he would curse the day that ever he came on such an\nerrand.\"\n\nThe young clerk smiled at his companion's earnestness. \"Had He wished\nhelp,\" he said, \"He could have summoned legions of archangels from\nheaven, so what need had He of your poor bow and arrow? Besides, bethink\nyou of His own words--that those who live by the sword shall perish by\nthe sword.\"\n\n\"And how could man die better?\" asked the archer. \"If I had my wish, it\nwould be to fall so--not, mark you, in any mere skirmish of the Company,\nbut in a stricken field, with the great lion banner waving over us and\nthe red oriflamme in front, amid the shouting of my fellows and the\ntwanging of the strings. But let it be sword, lance, or bolt that\nstrikes me down: for I should think it shame to die from an iron ball\nfrom the fire-crake or bombard or any such unsoldierly weapon, which is\nonly fitted to scare babes with its foolish noise and smoke.\"\n\n\"I have heard much even in the quiet cloisters of these new and dreadful\nengines,\" quoth Alleyne. \"It is said, though I can scarce bring myself\nto believe it, that they will send a ball twice as far as a bowman\ncan shoot his shaft, and with such force as to break through armor of\nproof.\"\n\n\"True enough, my lad. But while the armorer is thrusting in his\ndevil's-dust, and dropping his ball, and lighting his flambeau, I\ncan very easily loose six shafts, or eight maybe, so he hath no great\nvantage after all. Yet I will not deny that at the intaking of a town\nit is well to have good store of bombards. I am told that at Calais they\nmade dints in the wall that a man might put his head into. But surely,\ncomrades, some one who is grievously hurt hath passed along this road\nbefore us.\"\n\nAll along the woodland track there did indeed run a scattered straggling\ntrail of blood-marks, sometimes in single drops, and in other places in\nbroad, ruddy gouts, smudged over the dead leaves or crimsoning the white\nflint stones.\n\n\"It must be a stricken deer,\" said John.\n\n\"Nay, I am woodman enough to see that no deer hath passed this way this\nmorning; and yet the blood is fresh. But hark to the sound!\"\n\nThey stood listening all three with sidelong heads. Through the silence\nof the great forest there came a swishing, whistling sound, mingled\nwith the most dolorous groans, and the voice of a man raised in a\nhigh quavering kind of song. The comrades hurried onwards eagerly, and\ntopping the brow of a small rising they saw upon the other side the\nsource from which these strange noises arose.\n\nA tall man, much stooped in the shoulders, was walking slowly with\nbended head and clasped hands in the centre of the path. He was dressed\nfrom head to foot in a long white linen cloth, and a high white cap\nwith a red cross printed upon it. His gown was turned back from his\nshoulders, and the flesh there was a sight to make a man wince, for it\nwas all beaten to a pulp, and the blood was soaking into his gown and\ntrickling down upon the ground. Behind him walked a smaller man with his\nhair touched with gray, who was clad in the same white garb. He intoned\na long whining rhyme in the French tongue, and at the end of every line\nhe raised a thick cord, all jagged with pellets of lead, and smote his\ncompanion across the shoulders until the blood spurted again. Even as\nthe three wayfarers stared, however, there was a sudden change, for the\nsmaller man, having finished his song, loosened his own gown and handed\nthe scourge to the other, who took up the stave once more and lashed\nhis companion with all the strength of his bare and sinewy arm. So,\nalternately beating and beaten, they made their dolorous way through the\nbeautiful woods and under the amber arches of the fading beech-trees,\nwhere the calm strength and majesty of Nature might serve to rebuke the\nfoolish energies and misspent strivings of mankind.\n\nSuch a spectacle was new to Hordle John or to Alleyne Edricson; but the\narcher treated it lightly, as a common matter enough.\n\n\"These are the Beating Friars, otherwise called the Flagellants,\" quoth\nhe. \"I marvel that ye should have come upon none of them before, for\nacross the water they are as common as gallybaggers. I have heard that\nthere are no English among them, but that they are from France, Italy\nand Bohemia. En avant, camarades! that we may have speech with them.\"\n\nAs they came up to them, Alleyne could hear the doleful dirge which the\nbeater was chanting, bringing down his heavy whip at the end of each\nline, while the groans of the sufferer formed a sort of dismal chorus.\nIt was in old French, and ran somewhat in this way:\n\n        Or avant, entre nous tous freres\n        Battons nos charognes bien fort\n        En remembrant la grant misere\n        De Dieu et sa piteuse mort\n        Qui fut pris en la gent amere\n        Et vendus et trais a tort\n        Et bastu sa chair, vierge et dere\n        Au nom de ce battons plus fort.\n\nThen at the end of the verse the scourge changed hands and the chanting\nbegan anew.\n\n\"Truly, holy fathers,\" said the archer in French as they came abreast of\nthem, \"you have beaten enough for to-day. The road is all spotted like a\nshambles at Martinmas. Why should ye mishandle yourselves thus?\"\n\n\"C'est pour vos peches--pour vos peches,\" they droned, looking at the\ntravellers with sad lack-lustre eyes, and then bent to their bloody\nwork once more without heed to the prayers and persuasions which were\naddressed to them. Finding all remonstrance useless, the three comrades\nhastened on their way, leaving these strange travellers to their dreary\ntask.\n\n\"Mort Dieu!\" cried the bowman, \"there is a bucketful or more of my blood\nover in France, but it was all spilled in hot fight, and I should think\ntwice before I drew it drop by drop as these friars are doing. By my\nhilt! our young one here is as white as a Picardy cheese. What is amiss\nthen, mon cher?\"\n\n\"It is nothing,\" Alleyne answered. \"My life has been too quiet, I am not\nused to such sights.\"\n\n\"Ma foi!\" the other cried, \"I have never yet seen a man who was so stout\nof speech and yet so weak of heart.\"\n\n\"Not so, friend,\" quoth big John; \"it is not weakness of heart for I\nknow the lad well. His heart is as good as thine or mine but he hath\nmore in his pate than ever you will carry under that tin pot of thine,\nand as a consequence he can see farther into things, so that they weigh\nupon him more.\"\n\n\"Surely to any man it is a sad sight,\" said Alleyne, \"to see these\nholy men, who have done no sin themselves, suffering so for the sins of\nothers. Saints are they, if in this age any may merit so high a name.\"\n\n\"I count them not a fly,\" cried Hordle John; \"for who is the better for\nall their whipping and yowling? They are like other friars, I trow, when\nall is done. Let them leave their backs alone, and beat the pride out of\ntheir hearts.\"\n\n\"By the three kings! there is sooth in what you say,\" remarked the\narcher. \"Besides, methinks if I were le bon Dieu, it would bring me\nlittle joy to see a poor devil cutting the flesh off his bones; and I\nshould think that he had but a small opinion of me, that he should hope\nto please me by such provost-marshal work. No, by my hilt! I should look\nwith a more loving eye upon a jolly archer who never harmed a fallen foe\nand never feared a hale one.\"\n\n\"Doubtless you mean no sin,\" said Alleyne. \"If your words are wild, it\nis not for me to judge them. Can you not see that there are other foes\nin this world besides Frenchmen, and as much glory to be gained in\nconquering them? Would it not be a proud day for knight or squire if he\ncould overthrow seven adversaries in the lists? Yet here are we in the\nlists of life, and there come the seven black champions against us Sir\nPride, Sir Covetousness, Sir Lust, Sir Anger, Sir Gluttony, Sir Envy,\nand Sir Sloth. Let a man lay those seven low, and he shall have the\nprize of the day, from the hands of the fairest queen of beauty, even\nfrom the Virgin-Mother herself. It is for this that these men mortify\ntheir flesh, and to set us an example, who would pamper ourselves\novermuch. I say again that they are God's own saints, and I bow my head\nto them.\"\n\n\"And so you shall, mon petit,\" replied the archer. \"I have not heard\na man speak better since old Dom Bertrand died, who was at one time\nchaplain to the White Company. He was a very valiant man, but at\nthe battle of Brignais he was spitted through the body by a Hainault\nman-at-arms. For this we had an excommunication read against the man,\nwhen next we saw our holy father at Avignon; but as we had not his name,\nand knew nothing of him, save that he rode a dapple-gray roussin, I have\nfeared sometimes that the blight may have settled upon the wrong man.\"\n\n\"Your Company has been, then, to bow knee before our holy father, the\nPope Urban, the prop and centre of Christendom?\" asked Alleyne, much\ninterested. \"Perchance you have yourself set eyes upon his august face?\"\n\n\"Twice I saw him,\" said the archer. \"He was a lean little rat of a man,\nwith a scab on his chin. The first time we had five thousand crowns out\nof him, though he made much ado about it. The second time we asked ten\nthousand, but it was three days before we could come to terms, and I\nam of opinion myself that we might have done better by plundering the\npalace. His chamberlain and cardinals came forth, as I remember, to\nask whether we would take seven thousand crowns with his blessing and\na plenary absolution, or the ten thousand with his solemn ban by bell,\nbook and candle. We were all of one mind that it was best to have the\nten thousand with the curse; but in some way they prevailed upon Sir\nJohn, so that we were blest and shriven against our will. Perchance it\nis as well, for the Company were in need of it about that time.\"\n\nThe pious Alleyne was deeply shocked by this reminiscence. Involuntarily\nhe glanced up and around to see if there were any trace of those\nopportune levin-flashes and thunderbolts which, in the \"Acta Sanctorum,\"\nwere wont so often to cut short the loose talk of the scoffer. The\nautumn sun streamed down as brightly as ever, and the peaceful red path\nstill wound in front of them through the rustling, yellow-tinted forest,\nNature seemed to be too busy with her own concerns to heed the dignity\nof an outraged pontiff. Yet he felt a sense of weight and reproach\nwithin his breast, as though he had sinned himself in giving ear to such\nwords. The teachings of twenty years cried out against such license. It\nwas not until he had thrown himself down before one of the many wayside\ncrosses, and had prayed from his heart both for the archer and for\nhimself, that the dark cloud rolled back again from his spirit.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII. THE THREE FRIENDS.\n\n\nHis companions had passed on whilst he was at his orisons; but his young\nblood and the fresh morning air both invited him to a scamper. His staff\nin one hand and his scrip in the other, with springy step and floating\nlocks, he raced along the forest path, as active and as graceful as a\nyoung deer. He had not far to go, however; for, on turning a corner,\nhe came on a roadside cottage with a wooden fence-work around it, where\nstood big John and Aylward the bowman, staring at something within. As\nhe came up with them, he saw that two little lads, the one about nine\nyears of age and the other somewhat older, were standing on the plot\nin front of the cottage, each holding out a round stick in their left\nhands, with their arms stiff and straight from the shoulder, as\nsilent and still as two small statues. They were pretty, blue-eyed,\nyellow-haired lads, well made and sturdy, with bronzed skins, which\nspoke of a woodland life.\n\n\"Here are young chips from an old bow stave!\" cried the soldier in great\ndelight. \"This is the proper way to raise children. By my hilt! I could\nnot have trained them better had I the ordering of it myself.\"\n\n\"What is it then?\" asked Hordle John. \"They stand very stiff, and I\ntrust that they have not been struck so.\"\n\n\"Nay, they are training their left arms, that they may have a steady\ngrasp of the bow. So my own father trained me, and six days a week I\nheld out his walking-staff till my arm was heavy as lead. Hola, mes\nenfants! how long will you hold out?\"\n\n\"Until the sun is over the great lime-tree, good master,\" the elder\nanswered.\n\n\"What would ye be, then? Woodmen? Verderers?\"\n\n\"Nay, soldiers,\" they cried both together.\n\n\"By the beard of my father! but ye are whelps of the true breed. Why so\nkeen, then, to be soldiers?\"\n\n\"That we may fight the Scots,\" they answered. \"Daddy will send us to\nfight the Scots.\"\n\n\"And why the Scots, my pretty lads? We have seen French and Spanish\ngalleys no further away than Southampton, but I doubt that it will be\nsome time before the Scots find their way to these parts.\"\n\n\"Our business is with the Scots,\" quoth the elder; \"for it was the Scots\nwho cut off daddy's string fingers and his thumbs.\"\n\n\"Aye, lads, it was that,\" said a deep voice from behind Alleyne's\nshoulder. Looking round, the wayfarers saw a gaunt, big-boned man, with\nsunken cheeks and a sallow face, who had come up behind them. He held\nup his two hands as he spoke, and showed that the thumbs and two first\nfingers had been torn away from each of them.\n\n\"Ma foi, camarade!\" cried Aylward. \"Who hath served thee in so shameful\na fashion?\"\n\n\"It is easy to see, friend, that you were born far from the marches of\nScotland,\" quoth the stranger, with a bitter smile. \"North of Humber\nthere is no man who would not know the handiwork of Devil Douglas, the\nblack Lord James.\"\n\n\"And how fell you into his hands?\" asked John.\n\n\"I am a man of the north country, from the town of Beverley and the\nwapentake of Holderness,\" he answered. \"There was a day when, from Trent\nto Tweed, there was no better marksman than Robin Heathcot. Yet, as you\nsee, he hath left me, as he hath left many another poor border archer,\nwith no grip for bill or bow. Yet the king hath given me a living here\nin the southlands, and please God these two lads of mine will pay off\na debt that hath been owing over long. What is the price of daddy's\nthumbs, boys?\"\n\n\"Twenty Scottish lives,\" they answered together.\n\n\"And for the fingers?\"\n\n\"Half a score.\"\n\n\"When they can bend my war-bow, and bring down a squirrel at a hundred\npaces, I send them to take service under Johnny Copeland, the Lord of\nthe Marches and Governor of Carlisle. By my soul! I would give the rest\nof my fingers to see the Douglas within arrow-flight of them.\"\n\n\"May you live to see it,\" quoth the bowman. \"And hark ye, mes enfants,\ntake an old soldier's rede and lay your bodies to the bow, drawing from\nhip and thigh as much as from arm. Learn also, I pray you, to shoot with\na dropping shaft; for though a bowman may at times be called upon to\nshoot straight and fast, yet it is more often that he has to do with a\ntown-guard behind a wall, or an arbalestier with his mantlet raised when\nyou cannot hope to do him scathe unless your shaft fall straight upon\nhim from the clouds. I have not drawn string for two weeks, but I may\nbe able to show ye how such shots should be made.\" He loosened his\nlong-bow, slung his quiver round to the front, and then glanced keenly\nround for a fitting mark. There was a yellow and withered stump some\nway off, seen under the drooping branches of a lofty oak. The archer\nmeasured the distance with his eye; and then, drawing three shafts, he\nshot them off with such speed that the first had not reached the mark\nere the last was on the string. Each arrow passed high over the oak;\nand, of the three, two stuck fair into the stump; while the third,\ncaught in some wandering puff of wind, was driven a foot or two to one\nside.\n\n\"Good!\" cried the north countryman. \"Hearken to him lads! He is a master\nbowman. Your dad says amen to every word he says.\"\n\n\"By my hilt!\" said Aylward, \"if I am to preach on bowmanship, the whole\nlong day would scarce give me time for my sermon. We have marksmen in\nthe Company who will notch with a shaft every crevice and joint of a\nman-at-arm's harness, from the clasp of his bassinet to the hinge of his\ngreave. But, with your favor, friend, I must gather my arrows again, for\nwhile a shaft costs a penny a poor man can scarce leave them sticking\nin wayside stumps. We must, then, on our road again, and I hope from my\nheart that you may train these two young goshawks here until they are\nready for a cast even at such a quarry as you speak of.\"\n\nLeaving the thumbless archer and his brood, the wayfarers struck through\nthe scattered huts of Emery Down, and out on to the broad rolling heath\ncovered deep in ferns and in heather, where droves of the half-wild\nblack forest pigs were rooting about amongst the hillocks. The woods\nabout this point fall away to the left and the right, while the road\ncurves upwards and the wind sweeps keenly over the swelling uplands. The\nbroad strips of bracken glowed red and yellow against the black peaty\nsoil, and a queenly doe who grazed among them turned her white front\nand her great questioning eyes towards the wayfarers. Alleyne gazed\nin admiration at the supple beauty of the creature; but the archer's\nfingers played with his quiver, and his eyes glistened with the fell\ninstinct which urges a man to slaughter.\n\n\"Tete Dieu!\" he growled, \"were this France, or even Guienne, we should\nhave a fresh haunch for our none-meat. Law or no law, I have a mind to\nloose a bolt at her.\"\n\n\"I would break your stave across my knee first,\" cried John, laying his\ngreat hand upon the bow. \"What! man, I am forest-born, and I know what\ncomes of it. In our own township of Hordle two have lost their eyes and\none his skin for this very thing. On my troth, I felt no great love when\nI first saw you, but since then I have conceived over much regard for\nyou to wish to see the verderer's flayer at work upon you.\"\n\n\"It is my trade to risk my skin,\" growled the archer; but none the less\nhe thrust his quiver over his hip again and turned his face for the\nwest.\n\nAs they advanced, the path still tended upwards, running from heath into\ncopses of holly and yew, and so back into heath again. It was joyful to\nhear the merry whistle of blackbirds as they darted from one clump\nof greenery to the other. Now and again a peaty amber colored stream\nrippled across their way, with ferny over-grown banks, where the blue\nkingfisher flitted busily from side to side, or the gray and pensive\nheron, swollen with trout and dignity, stood ankle-deep among the\nsedges. Chattering jays and loud wood-pigeons flapped thickly overhead,\nwhile ever and anon the measured tapping of Nature's carpenter, the\ngreat green woodpecker, sounded from each wayside grove. On either side,\nas the path mounted, the long sweep of country broadened and expanded,\nsloping down on the one side through yellow forest and brown moor to\nthe distant smoke of Lymington and the blue misty channel which lay\nalongside the sky-line, while to the north the woods rolled away, grove\ntopping grove, to where in the furthest distance the white spire of\nSalisbury stood out hard and clear against the cloudless sky. To Alleyne\nwhose days had been spent in the low-lying coastland, the eager upland\nair and the wide free country-side gave a sense of life and of the joy\nof living which made his young blood tingle in his veins. Even the\nheavy John was not unmoved by the beauty of their road, while the bowman\nwhistled lustily or sang snatches of French love songs in a voice which\nmight have scared the most stout-hearted maiden that ever hearkened to\nserenade.\n\n\"I have a liking for that north countryman,\" he remarked presently. \"He\nhath good power of hatred. Couldst see by his cheek and eye that he is\nas bitter as verjuice. I warm to a man who hath some gall in his liver.\"\n\n\"Ah me!\" sighed Alleyne. \"Would it not be better if he had some love in\nhis heart?\"\n\n\"I would not say nay to that. By my hilt! I shall never be said to be\ntraitor to the little king. Let a man love the sex. Pasques Dieu! they\nare made to be loved, les petites, from whimple down to shoe-string! I\nam right glad, mon garcon, to see that the good monks have trained thee\nso wisely and so well.\"\n\n\"Nay, I meant not worldly love, but rather that his heart should soften\ntowards those who have wronged him.\"\n\nThe archer shook his head. \"A man should love those of his own breed,\"\nsaid he. \"But it is not nature that an English-born man should love\na Scot or a Frenchman. Ma foi! you have not seen a drove of Nithsdale\nraiders on their Galloway nags, or you would not speak of loving them. I\nwould as soon take Beelzebub himself to my arms. I fear, mon gar., that\nthey have taught thee but badly at Beaulieu, for surely a bishop knows\nmore of what is right and what is ill than an abbot can do, and I myself\nwith these very eyes saw the Bishop of Lincoln hew into a Scottish\nhobeler with a battle-axe, which was a passing strange way of showing\nhim that he loved him.\"\n\nAlleyne scarce saw his way to argue in the face of so decided an opinion\non the part of a high dignitary of the Church. \"You have borne arms\nagainst the Scots, then?\" he asked.\n\n\"Why, man, I first loosed string in battle when I was but a lad, younger\nby two years than you, at Neville's Cross, under the Lord Mowbray.\nLater, I served under the Warden of Berwick, that very John Copeland of\nwhom our friend spake, the same who held the King of Scots to ransom. Ma\nfoi! it is rough soldiering, and a good school for one who would learn\nto be hardy and war-wise.\"\n\n\"I have heard that the Scots are good men of war,\" said Hordle John.\n\n\"For axemen and for spearmen I have not seen their match,\" the archer\nanswered. \"They can travel, too, with bag of meal and gridiron slung\nto their sword-belt, so that it is ill to follow them. There are scant\ncrops and few beeves in the borderland, where a man must reap his grain\nwith sickle in one fist and brown bill in the other. On the other hand,\nthey are the sorriest archers that I have ever seen, and cannot so much\nas aim with the arbalest, to say nought of the long-bow. Again, they are\nmostly poor folk, even the nobles among them, so that there are few who\ncan buy as good a brigandine of chain-mail as that which I am wearing,\nand it is ill for them to stand up against our own knights, who carry\nthe price of five Scotch farms upon their chest and shoulders. Man for\nman, with equal weapons, they are as worthy and valiant men as could be\nfound in the whole of Christendom.\"\n\n\"And the French?\" asked Alleyne, to whom the archer's light gossip had\nall the relish that the words of the man of action have for the recluse.\n\n\"The French are also very worthy men. We have had great good fortune in\nFrance, and it hath led to much bobance and camp-fire talk, but I have\never noticed that those who know the most have the least to say about\nit. I have seen Frenchmen fight both in open field, in the intaking and\nthe defending of towns or castlewicks, in escalados, camisades, night\nforays, bushments, sallies, outfalls, and knightly spear-runnings. Their\nknights and squires, lad, are every whit as good as ours, and I could\npick out a score of those who ride behind Du Guesclin who would hold the\nlists with sharpened lances against the best men in the army of England.\nOn the other hand, their common folk are so crushed down with gabelle,\nand poll-tax, and every manner of cursed tallage, that the spirit has\npassed right out of them. It is a fool's plan to teach a man to be a\ncur in peace, and think that he will be a lion in war. Fleece them like\nsheep and sheep they will remain. If the nobles had not conquered\nthe poor folk it is like enough that we should not have conquered the\nnobles.\"\n\n\"But they must be sorry folk to bow down to the rich in such a fashion,\"\nsaid big John. \"I am but a poor commoner of England myself, and yet I\nknow something of charters, liberties, franchises, usages, privileges,\ncustoms, and the like. If these be broken, then all men know that it is\ntime to buy arrow-heads.\"\n\n\"Aye, but the men of the law are strong in France as well as the men\nof war. By my hilt! I hold that a man has more to fear there from the\nink-pot of the one than from the iron of the other. There is ever some\ncursed sheepskin in their strong boxes to prove that the rich man should\nbe richer and the poor man poorer. It would scarce pass in England, but\nthey are quiet folk over the water.\"\n\n\"And what other nations have you seen in your travels, good sir?\" asked\nAlleyne Edricson. His young mind hungered for plain facts of life, after\nthe long course of speculation and of mysticism on which he had been\ntrained.\n\n\"I have seen the low countryman in arms, and I have nought to say\nagainst him. Heavy and slow is he by nature, and is not to be brought\ninto battle for the sake of a lady's eyelash or the twang of a\nminstrel's string, like the hotter blood of the south. But ma foi! lay\nhand on his wool-bales, or trifle with his velvet of Bruges, and out\nbuzzes every stout burgher, like bees from the tee-hole, ready to lay on\nas though it were his one business in life. By our lady! they have shown\nthe French at Courtrai and elsewhere that they are as deft in wielding\nsteel as in welding it.\"\n\n\"And the men of Spain?\"\n\n\"They too are very hardy soldiers, the more so as for many hundred years\nthey have had to fight hard against the cursed followers of the black\nMahound, who have pressed upon them from the south, and still, as I\nunderstand, hold the fairer half of the country. I had a turn with them\nupon the sea when they came over to Winchelsea and the good queen with\nher ladies sat upon the cliffs looking down at us, as if it had been\njoust or tourney. By my hilt! it was a sight that was worth the seeing,\nfor all that was best in England was out on the water that day. We went\nforth in little ships and came back in great galleys--for of fifty tall\nships of Spain, over two score flew the Cross of St. George ere the sun\nhad set. But now, youngster, I have answered you freely, and I trow it\nis time that you answered me. Let things be plat and plain between us. I\nam a man who shoots straight at his mark. You saw the things I had\nwith me at yonder hostel: name which you will, save only the box of\nrose-colored sugar which I take to the Lady Loring, and you shall have\nit if you will but come with me to France.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Alleyne, \"I would gladly come with ye to France or where\nelse ye will, just to list to your talk, and because ye are the only two\nfriends that I have in the whole wide world outside of the cloisters;\nbut, indeed, it may not be, for my duty is towards my brother, seeing\nthat father and mother are dead, and he my elder. Besides, when ye talk\nof taking me to France, ye do not conceive how useless I should be to\nyou, seeing that neither by training nor by nature am I fitted for the\nwars, and there seems to be nought but strife in those parts.\"\n\n\"That comes from my fool's talk,\" cried the archer; \"for being a man of\nno learning myself, my tongue turns to blades and targets, even as\nmy hand does. Know then that for every parchment in England there are\ntwenty in France. For every statue, cut gem, shrine, carven screen,\nor what else might please the eye of a learned clerk, there are a good\nhundred to our one. At the spoiling of Carcasonne I have seen chambers\nstored with writing, though not one man in our Company could read them.\nAgain, in Arles and Nimes, and other towns that I could name, there are\nthe great arches and fortalices still standing which were built of old\nby giant men who came from the south. Can I not see by your brightened\neye how you would love to look upon these things? Come then with me,\nand, by these ten finger-bones! there is not one of them which you shall\nnot see.\"\n\n\"I should indeed love to look upon them,\" Alleyne answered; \"but I have\ncome from Beaulieu for a purpose, and I must be true to my service, even\nas thou art true to thine.\"\n\n\"Bethink you again, mon ami,\" quoth Aylward, \"that you might do much\ngood yonder, since there are three hundred men in the Company, and none\nwho has ever a word of grace for them, and yet the Virgin knows that\nthere was never a set of men who were in more need of it. Sickerly the\none duty may balance the other. Your brother hath done without you this\nmany a year, and, as I gather, he hath never walked as far as Beaulieu\nto see you during all that time, so he cannot be in any great need of\nyou.\"\n\n\"Besides,\" said John, \"the Socman of Minstead is a by-word through the\nforest, from Bramshaw Hill to Holmesley Walk. He is a drunken, brawling,\nperilous churl, as you may find to your cost.\"\n\n\"The more reason that I should strive to mend him,\" quoth Alleyne.\n\"There is no need to urge me, friends, for my own wishes would draw\nme to France, and it would be a joy to me if I could go with you. But\nindeed and indeed it cannot be, so here I take my leave of you, for\nyonder square tower amongst the trees upon the right must surely be the\nchurch of Minstead, and I may reach it by this path through the woods.\"\n\n\"Well, God be with thee, lad!\" cried the archer, pressing Alleyne to his\nheart. \"I am quick to love, and quick to hate and 'fore God I am loth to\npart.\"\n\n\"Would it not be well,\" said John, \"that we should wait here, and see\nwhat manner of greeting you have from your brother. You may prove to be\nas welcome as the king's purveyor to the village dame.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" he answered; \"ye must not bide for me, for where I go I\nstay.\"\n\n\"Yet it may be as well that you should know whither we go,\" said the\narcher. \"We shall now journey south through the woods until we come out\nupon the Christchurch road, and so onwards, hoping to-night to reach the\ncastle of Sir William Montacute, Earl of Salisbury, of which Sir Nigel\nLoring is constable. There we shall bide, and it is like enough that for\na month or more you may find us there, ere we are ready for our viage\nback to France.\"\n\nIt was hard indeed for Alleyne to break away from these two new but\nhearty friends, and so strong was the combat between his conscience\nand his inclinations that he dared not look round, lest his resolution\nshould slip away from him. It was not until he was deep among the tree\ntrunks that he cast a glance backwards, when he found that he could\nstill see them through the branches on the road above him. The archer\nwas standing with folded arms, his bow jutting from over his shoulder,\nand the sun gleaming brightly upon his head-piece and the links of\nhis chain-mail. Beside him stood his giant recruit, still clad in the\nhome-spun and ill-fitting garments of the fuller of Lymington, with arms\nand legs shooting out of his scanty garb. Even as Alleyne watched them\nthey turned upon their heels and plodded off together upon their way.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX. HOW STRANGE THINGS BEFELL IN MINSTEAD WOOD.\n\n\nThe path which the young clerk had now to follow lay through a\nmagnificent forest of the very heaviest timber, where the giant bowls\nof oak and of beech formed long aisles in every direction, shooting\nup their huge branches to build the majestic arches of Nature's own\ncathedral. Beneath lay a broad carpet of the softest and greenest moss,\nflecked over with fallen leaves, but yielding pleasantly to the foot of\nthe traveller. The track which guided him was one so seldom used that in\nplaces it lost itself entirely among the grass, to reappear as a reddish\nrut between the distant tree trunks. It was very still here in the heart\nof the woodlands. The gentle rustle of the branches and the distant\ncooing of pigeons were the only sounds which broke in upon the silence,\nsave that once Alleyne heard afar off a merry call upon a hunting bugle\nand the shrill yapping of the hounds.\n\nIt was not without some emotion that he looked upon the scene around\nhim, for, in spite of his secluded life, he knew enough of the ancient\ngreatness of his own family to be aware that the time had been when they\nhad held undisputed and paramount sway over all that tract of country.\nHis father could trace his pure Saxon lineage back to that Godfrey Malf\nwho had held the manors of Bisterne and of Minstead at the time when the\nNorman first set mailed foot upon English soil. The afforestation of the\ndistrict, however, and its conversion into a royal demesne had\nclipped off a large section of his estate, while other parts had been\nconfiscated as a punishment for his supposed complicity in an abortive\nSaxon rising. The fate of the ancestor had been typical of that of his\ndescendants. During three hundred years their domains had gradually\ncontracted, sometimes through royal or feudal encroachment, and\nsometimes through such gifts to the Church as that with which Alleyne's\nfather had opened the doors of Beaulieu Abbey to his younger son. The\nimportance of the family had thus dwindled, but they still retained the\nold Saxon manor-house, with a couple of farms and a grove large enough\nto afford pannage to a hundred pigs--\"sylva de centum porcis,\" as the\nold family parchments describe it. Above all, the owner of the soil\ncould still hold his head high as the veritable Socman of Minstead--that\nis, as holding the land in free socage, with no feudal superior, and\nanswerable to no man lower than the king. Knowing this, Alleyne felt\nsome little glow of worldly pride as he looked for the first time\nupon the land with which so many generations of his ancestors had been\nassociated. He pushed on the quicker, twirling his staff merrily, and\nlooking out at every turn of the path for some sign of the old Saxon\nresidence. He was suddenly arrested, however, by the appearance of a\nwild-looking fellow armed with a club, who sprang out from behind a tree\nand barred his passage. He was a rough, powerful peasant, with cap and\ntunic of untanned sheepskin, leather breeches, and galligaskins round\nlegs and feet.\n\n\"Stand!\" he shouted, raising his heavy cudgel to enforce the order. \"Who\nare you who walk so freely through the wood? Whither would you go, and\nwhat is your errand?\"\n\n\"Why should I answer your questions, my friend?\" said Alleyne, standing\non his guard.\n\n\"Because your tongue may save your pate. But where have I looked upon\nyour face before?\"\n\n\"No longer ago than last night at the 'Pied Merlin,'\" the clerk\nanswered, recognizing the escaped serf who had been so outspoken as to\nhis wrongs.\n\n\"By the Virgin! yes. You were the little clerk who sat so mum in the\ncorner, and then cried fy on the gleeman. What hast in the scrip?\"\n\n\"Naught of any price.\"\n\n\"How can I tell that, clerk? Let me see.\"\n\n\"Not I.\"\n\n\"Fool! I could pull you limb from limb like a pullet. What would you\nhave? Hast forgot that we are alone far from all men? How can your\nclerkship help you? Wouldst lose scrip and life too?\"\n\n\"I will part with neither without fight.\"\n\n\"A fight, quotha? A fight betwixt spurred cock and new hatched chicken!\nThy fighting days may soon be over.\"\n\n\"Hadst asked me in the name of charity I would have given freely,\" cried\nAlleyne. \"As it stands, not one farthing shall you have with my free\nwill, and when I see my brother, the Socman of Minstead, he will raise\nhue and cry from vill to vill, from hundred to hundred, until you are\ntaken as a common robber and a scourge to the country.\"\n\nThe outlaw sank his club. \"The Socman's brother!\" he gasped. \"Now,\nby the keys of Peter! I had rather that hand withered and tongue was\npalsied ere I had struck or miscalled you. If you are the Socman's\nbrother you are one of the right side, I warrant, for all your clerkly\ndress.\"\n\n\"His brother I am,\" said Alleyne. \"But if I were not, is that reason why\nyou should molest me on the king's ground?\"\n\n\"I give not the pip of an apple for king or for noble,\" cried the serf\npassionately. \"Ill have I had from them, and ill I shall repay them. I\nam a good friend to my friends, and, by the Virgin! an evil foeman to my\nfoes.\"\n\n\"And therefore the worst of foemen to thyself,\" said Alleyne. \"But I\npray you, since you seem to know him, to point out to me the shortest\npath to my brother's house.\"\n\nThe serf was about to reply, when the clear ringing call of a bugle\nburst from the wood close behind them, and Alleyne caught sight for\nan instant of the dun side and white breast of a lordly stag glancing\nswiftly betwixt the distant tree trunks. A minute later came the shaggy\ndeer-hounds, a dozen or fourteen of them, running on a hot scent, with\nnose to earth and tail in air. As they streamed past the silent forest\naround broke suddenly into loud life, with galloping of hoofs, crackling\nof brushwood, and the short, sharp cries of the hunters. Close behind\nthe pack rode a fourrier and a yeoman-pricker, whooping on the laggards\nand encouraging the leaders, in the shrill half-French jargon which was\nthe language of venery and woodcraft. Alleyne was still gazing\nafter them, listening to the loud \"Hyke-a-Bayard! Hyke-a-Pomers!\nHyke-a-Lebryt!\" with which they called upon their favorite hounds, when\na group of horsemen crashed out through the underwood at the very spot\nwhere the serf and he were standing.\n\nThe one who led was a man between fifty and sixty years of age, war-worn\nand weather-beaten, with a broad, thoughtful forehead and eyes which\nshone brightly from under his fierce and overhung brows. His beard,\nstreaked thickly with gray, bristled forward from his chin, and spoke\nof a passionate nature, while the long, finely cut face and firm mouth\nmarked the leader of men. His figure was erect and soldierly, and he\nrode his horse with the careless grace of a man whose life had been\nspent in the saddle. In common garb, his masterful face and flashing\neye would have marked him as one who was born to rule; but now, with his\nsilken tunic powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis, his velvet mantle lined\nwith the royal minever, and the lions of England stamped in silver upon\nhis harness, none could fail to recognize the noble Edward, most warlike\nand powerful of all the long line of fighting monarchs who had ruled\nthe Anglo-Norman race. Alleyne doffed hat and bowed head at the sight\nof him, but the serf folded his hands and leaned them upon his cudgel,\nlooking with little love at the knot of nobles and knights-in-waiting\nwho rode behind the king.\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Edward, reining up for an instant his powerful black steed.\n\"Le cerf est passe? Non? Ici, Brocas; tu parles Anglais.\"\n\n\"The deer, clowns?\" said a hard-visaged, swarthy-faced man, who rode at\nthe king's elbow. \"If ye have headed it back it is as much as your ears\nare worth.\"\n\n\"It passed by the blighted beech there,\" said Alleyne, pointing, \"and\nthe hounds were hard at its heels.\"\n\n\"It is well,\" cried Edward, still speaking in French: for, though he\ncould understand English, he had never learned to express himself in so\nbarbarous and unpolished a tongue. \"By my faith, sirs,\" he continued,\nhalf turning in his saddle to address his escort, \"unless my woodcraft\nis sadly at fault, it is a stag of six tines and the finest that we have\nroused this journey. A golden St. Hubert to the man who is the first to\nsound the mort.\" He shook his bridle as he spoke, and thundered away,\nhis knights lying low upon their horses and galloping as hard as whip\nand spur would drive them, in the hope of winning the king's prize. Away\nthey drove down the long green glade--bay horses, black and gray, riders\nclad in every shade of velvet, fur, or silk, with glint of brazen horn\nand flash of knife and spear. One only lingered, the black-browed Baron\nBrocas, who, making a gambade which brought him within arm-sweep of\nthe serf, slashed him across the face with his riding-whip. \"Doff, dog,\ndoff,\" he hissed, \"when a monarch deigns to lower his eyes to such as\nyou!\"--then spurred through the underwood and was gone, with a gleam of\nsteel shoes and flutter of dead leaves.\n\nThe villein took the cruel blow without wince or cry, as one to whom\nstripes are a birthright and an inheritance. His eyes flashed, however,\nand he shook his bony hand with a fierce wild gesture after the\nretreating figure.\n\n\"Black hound of Gascony,\" he muttered, \"evil the day that you and those\nlike you set foot in free England! I know thy kennel of Rochecourt. The\nnight will come when I may do to thee and thine what you and your class\nhave wrought upon mine and me. May God smite me if I fail to smite thee,\nthou French robber, with thy wife and thy child and all that is under\nthy castle roof!\"\n\n\"Forbear!\" cried Alleyne. \"Mix not God's name with these unhallowed\nthreats! And yet it was a coward's blow, and one to stir the blood and\nloose the tongue of the most peaceful. Let me find some soothing simples\nand lay them on the weal to draw the sting.\"\n\n\"Nay, there is but one thing that can draw the sting, and that the\nfuture may bring to me. But, clerk, if you would see your brother you\nmust on, for there is a meeting to-day, and his merry men will await him\nere the shadows turn from west to east. I pray you not to hold him back,\nfor it would be an evil thing if all the stout lads were there and the\nleader a-missing. I would come with you, but sooth to say I am stationed\nhere and may not move. The path over yonder, betwixt the oak and the\nthorn, should bring you out into his nether field.\"\n\nAlleyne lost no time in following the directions of the wild, masterless\nman, whom he left among the trees where he had found him. His heart was\nthe heavier for the encounter, not only because all bitterness and wrath\nwere abhorrent to his gentle nature, but also because it disturbed him\nto hear his brother spoken of as though he were a chief of outlaws or\nthe leader of a party against the state. Indeed, of all the things which\nhe had seen yet in the world to surprise him there was none more\nstrange than the hate which class appeared to bear to class. The talk\nof laborer, woodman and villein in the inn had all pointed to the\nwide-spread mutiny, and now his brother's name was spoken as though he\nwere the very centre of the universal discontent. In good truth, the\ncommons throughout the length and breadth of the land were heart-weary\nof this fine game of chivalry which had been played so long at their\nexpense. So long as knight and baron were a strength and a guard to the\nkingdom they might be endured, but now, when all men knew that the great\nbattles in France had been won by English yeomen and Welsh stabbers,\nwarlike fame, the only fame to which his class had ever aspired,\nappeared to have deserted the plate-clad horsemen. The sports of the\nlists had done much in days gone by to impress the minds of the people,\nbut the plumed and unwieldy champion was no longer an object either of\nfear or of reverence to men whose fathers and brothers had shot into the\npress at Crecy or Poitiers, and seen the proudest chivalry in the world\nunable to make head against the weapons of disciplined peasants. Power\nhad changed hands. The protector had become the protected, and the whole\nfabric of the feudal system was tottering to a fall. Hence the fierce\nmutterings of the lower classes and the constant discontent, breaking\nout into local tumult and outrage, and culminating some years later in\nthe great rising of Tyler. What Alleyne saw and wondered at in Hampshire\nwould have appealed equally to the traveller in any other English county\nfrom the Channel to the marches of Scotland.\n\nHe was following the track, his misgivings increasing with every step\nwhich took him nearer to that home which he had never seen, when of a\nsudden the trees began to thin and the sward to spread out onto a broad,\ngreen lawn, where five cows lay in the sunshine and droves of black\nswine wandered unchecked. A brown forest stream swirled down the centre\nof this clearing, with a rude bridge flung across it, and on the other\nside was a second field sloping up to a long, low-lying wooden house,\nwith thatched roof and open squares for windows. Alleyne gazed across\nat it with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes--for this, he knew, must\nbe the home of his fathers. A wreath of blue smoke floated up through a\nhole in the thatch, and was the only sign of life in the place, save a\ngreat black hound which lay sleeping chained to the door-post. In the\nyellow shimmer of the autumn sunshine it lay as peacefully and as still\nas he had oft pictured it to himself in his dreams.\n\nHe was roused, however, from his pleasant reverie by the sound of\nvoices, and two people emerged from the forest some little way to his\nright and moved across the field in the direction of the bridge. The one\nwas a man with yellow flowing beard and very long hair of the same tint\ndrooping over his shoulders; his dress of good Norwich cloth and his\nassured bearing marked him as a man of position, while the sombre hue\nof his clothes and the absence of all ornament contrasted with the flash\nand glitter which had marked the king's retinue. By his side walked\na woman, tall and slight and dark, with lithe, graceful figure and\nclear-cut, composed features. Her jet-black hair was gathered back under\na light pink coif, her head poised proudly upon her neck, and her step\nlong and springy, like that of some wild, tireless woodland creature.\nShe held her left hand in front of her, covered with a red velvet glove,\nand on the wrist a little brown falcon, very fluffy and bedraggled,\nwhich she smoothed and fondled as she walked. As she came out into the\nsunshine, Alleyne noticed that her light gown, slashed with pink, was\nall stained with earth and with moss upon one side from shoulder to hem.\nHe stood in the shadow of an oak staring at her with parted lips, for\nthis woman seemed to him to be the most beautiful and graceful creature\nthat mind could conceive of. Such had he imagined the angels, and such\nhe had tried to paint them in the Beaulieu missals; but here there was\nsomething human, were it only in the battered hawk and discolored dress,\nwhich sent a tingle and thrill through his nerves such as no dream of\nradiant and stainless spirit had ever yet been able to conjure up. Good,\nquiet, uncomplaining mother Nature, long slighted and miscalled, still\nbides her time and draws to her bosom the most errant of her children.\n\nThe two walked swiftly across the meadow to the narrow bridge, he in\nfront and she a pace or two behind. There they paused, and stood for\na few minutes face to face talking earnestly. Alleyne had read and\nhad heard of love and of lovers. Such were these, doubtless--this\ngolden-bearded man and the fair damsel with the cold, proud face. Why\nelse should they wander together in the woods, or be so lost in talk by\nrustic streams? And yet as he watched, uncertain whether to advance from\nthe cover or to choose some other path to the house, he soon came\nto doubt the truth of this first conjecture. The man stood, tall and\nsquare, blocking the entrance to the bridge, and throwing out his hands\nas he spoke in a wild eager fashion, while the deep tones of his stormy\nvoice rose at times into accents of menace and of anger. She stood\nfearlessly in front of him, still stroking her bird; but twice she threw\na swift questioning glance over her shoulder, as one who is in search\nof aid. So moved was the young clerk by these mute appeals, that he came\nforth from the trees and crossed the meadow, uncertain what to do, and\nyet loth to hold back from one who might need his aid. So intent were\nthey upon each other that neither took note of his approach; until, when\nhe was close upon them, the man threw his arm roughly round the damsel's\nwaist and drew her towards him, she straining her lithe, supple figure\naway and striking fiercely at him, while the hooded hawk screamed with\nruffled wings and pecked blindly in its mistress's defence. Bird and\nmaid, however, had but little chance against their assailant who,\nlaughing loudly, caught her wrist in one hand while he drew her towards\nhim with the other.\n\n\"The best rose has ever the longest thorns,\" said he. \"Quiet, little\none, or you may do yourself a hurt. Must pay Saxon toll on Saxon land,\nmy proud Maude, for all your airs and graces.\"\n\n\"You boor!\" she hissed. \"You base underbred clod! Is this your care and\nyour hospitality? I would rather wed a branded serf from my father's\nfields. Leave go, I say----Ah! good youth, Heaven has sent you. Make him\nloose me! By the honor of your mother, I pray you to stand by me and to\nmake this knave loose me.\"\n\n\"Stand by you I will, and that blithely,\" said Alleyne. \"Surely, sir,\nyou should take shame to hold the damsel against her will.\"\n\nThe man turned a face upon him which was lion-like in its strength and\nin its wrath. With his tangle of golden hair, his fierce blue eyes, and\nhis large, well-marked features, he was the most comely man whom Alleyne\nhad ever seen, and yet there was something so sinister and so fell in\nhis expression that child or beast might well have shrunk from him. His\nbrows were drawn, his cheek flushed, and there was a mad sparkle in his\neyes which spoke of a wild, untamable nature.\n\n\"Young fool!\" he cried, holding the woman still to his side, though\nevery line of her shrinking figure spoke her abhorrence. \"Do you keep\nyour spoon in your own broth. I rede you to go on your way, lest worse\nbefall you. This little wench has come with me and with me she shall\nbide.\"\n\n\"Liar!\" cried the woman; and, stooping her head, she suddenly bit\nfiercely into the broad brown hand which held her. He whipped it back\nwith an oath, while she tore herself free and slipped behind Alleyne,\ncowering up against him like the trembling leveret who sees the falcon\npoising for the swoop above him.\n\n\"Stand off my land!\" the man said fiercely, heedless of the blood which\ntrickled freely from his fingers. \"What have you to do here? By your\ndress you should be one of those cursed clerks who overrun the land like\nvile rats, poking and prying into other men's concerns, too caitiff to\nfight and too lazy to work. By the rood! if I had my will upon ye, I\nshould nail you upon the abbey doors, as they hang vermin before their\nholes. Art neither man nor woman, young shaveling. Get thee back to thy\nfellows ere I lay hands upon you: for your foot is on my land, and I may\nslay you as a common draw-latch.\"\n\n\"Is this your land, then?\" gasped Alleyne.\n\n\"Would you dispute it, dog? Would you wish by trick or quibble to juggle\nme out of these last acres? Know, base-born knave, that you have dared\nthis day to stand in the path of one whose race have been the advisers\nof kings and the leaders of hosts, ere ever this vile crew of Norman\nrobbers came into the land, or such half-blood hounds as you were let\nloose to preach that the thief should have his booty and the honest man\nshould sin if he strove to win back his own.\"\n\n\"You are the Socman of Minstead?\"\n\n\"That am I; and the son of Edric the Socman, of the pure blood of\nGodfrey the thane, by the only daughter of the house of Aluric, whose\nforefathers held the white-horse banner at the fatal fight where our\nshield was broken and our sword shivered. I tell you, clerk, that my\nfolk held this land from Bramshaw Wood to the Ringwood road; and, by the\nsoul of my father! it will be a strange thing if I am to be bearded upon\nthe little that is left of it. Begone, I say, and meddle not with my\naffair.\"\n\n\"If you leave me now,\" whispered the woman, \"then shame forever upon\nyour manhood.\"\n\n\"Surely, sir,\" said Alleyne, speaking in as persuasive and soothing a\nway as he could, \"if your birth is gentle, there is the more reason that\nyour manners should be gentle too. I am well persuaded that you did but\njest with this lady, and that you will now permit her to leave your land\neither alone or with me as a guide, if she should need one, through the\nwood. As to birth, it does not become me to boast, and there is sooth in\nwhat you say as to the unworthiness of clerks, but it is none the less\ntrue that I am as well born as you.\"\n\n\"Dog!\" cried the furious Socman, \"there is no man in the south who can\nsay as much.\"\n\n\"Yet can I,\" said Alleyne smiling; \"for indeed I also am the son of\nEdric the Socman, of the pure blood of Godfrey the thane, by the only\ndaughter of Aluric of Brockenhurst. Surely, dear brother,\" he continued,\nholding out his hand, \"you have a warmer greeting than this for me.\nThere are but two boughs left upon this old, old Saxon trunk.\"\n\nHis elder brother dashed his hand aside with an oath, while an\nexpression of malignant hatred passed over his passion-drawn features.\n\"You are the young cub of Beaulieu, then,\" said he. \"I might have known\nit by the sleek face and the slavish manner too monk-ridden and craven\nin spirit to answer back a rough word. Thy father, shaveling, with all\nhis faults, had a man's heart; and there were few who could look him in\nthe eyes on the day of his anger. But you! Look there, rat, on yonder\nfield where the cows graze, and on that other beyond, and on the orchard\nhard by the church. Do you know that all these were squeezed out of\nyour dying father by greedy priests, to pay for your upbringing in the\ncloisters? I, the Socman, am shorn of my lands that you may snivel Latin\nand eat bread for which you never did hand's turn. You rob me first, and\nnow you would come preaching and whining, in search mayhap of another\nfield or two for your priestly friends. Knave! my dogs shall be set upon\nyou; but, meanwhile, stand out of my path, and stop me at your peril!\"\nAs he spoke he rushed forward, and, throwing the lad to one side, caught\nthe woman's wrist. Alleyne, however, as active as a young deer-hound,\nsprang to her aid and seized her by the other arm, raising his iron-shod\nstaff as he did so.\n\n\"You may say what you will to me,\" he said between his clenched\nteeth--\"it may be no better than I deserve; but, brother or no, I swear\nby my hopes of salvation that I will break your arm if you do not leave\nhold of the maid.\"\n\nThere was a ring in his voice and a flash in his eyes which promised\nthat the blow would follow quick at the heels of the word. For a moment\nthe blood of the long line of hot-headed thanes was too strong for the\nsoft whisperings of the doctrine of meekness and mercy. He was conscious\nof a fierce wild thrill through his nerves and a throb of mad gladness\nat his heart, as his real human self burst for an instant the bonds\nof custom and of teaching which had held it so long. The socman sprang\nback, looking to left and to right for some stick or stone which might\nserve him for weapon; but finding none, he turned and ran at the top of\nhis speed for the house, blowing the while upon a shrill whistle.\n\n\"Come!\" gasped the woman. \"Fly, friend, ere he come back.\"\n\n\"Nay, let him come!\" cried Alleyne. \"I shall not budge a foot for him or\nhis dogs.\"\n\n\"Come, come!\" she cried, tugging at his arm. \"I know the man: he will\nkill you. Come, for the Virgin's sake, or for my sake, for I cannot go\nand leave you here.\"\n\n\"Come, then,\" said he; and they ran together to the cover of the woods.\nAs they gained the edge of the brushwood, Alleyne, looking back, saw his\nbrother come running out of the house again, with the sun gleaming upon\nhis hair and his beard. He held something which flashed in his right\nhand, and he stooped at the threshold to unloose the black hound.\n\n\"This way!\" the woman whispered, in a low eager voice. \"Through the\nbushes to that forked ash. Do not heed me; I can run as fast as you, I\ntrow. Now into the stream--right in, over ankles, to throw the dog off,\nthough I think it is but a common cur, like its master.\" As she spoke,\nshe sprang herself into the shallow stream and ran swiftly up the\ncentre of it, with the brown water bubbling over her feet and her\nhand out-stretched toward the clinging branches of bramble or sapling.\nAlleyne followed close at her heels, with his mind in a whirl at this\nblack welcome and sudden shifting of all his plans and hopes. Yet, grave\nas were his thoughts, they would still turn to wonder as he looked at\nthe twinkling feet of his guide and saw her lithe figure bend this way\nand that, dipping under boughs, springing over stones, with a lightness\nand ease which made it no small task for him to keep up with her. At\nlast, when he was almost out of breath, she suddenly threw herself down\nupon a mossy bank, between two holly-bushes, and looked ruefully at her\nown dripping feet and bedraggled skirt.\n\n\"Holy Mary!\" said she, \"what shall I do? Mother will keep me to my\nchamber for a month, and make me work at the tapestry of the nine bold\nknights. She promised as much last week, when I fell into Wilverley bog,\nand yet she knows that I cannot abide needle-work.\"\n\nAlleyne, still standing in the stream, glanced down at the graceful\npink-and-white figure, the curve of raven-black hair, and the proud,\nsensitive face which looked up frankly and confidingly at his own.\n\n\"We had best on,\" he said. \"He may yet overtake us.\"\n\n\"Not so. We are well off his land now, nor can he tell in this great\nwood which way we have taken. But you--you had him at your mercy. Why\ndid you not kill him?\"\n\n\"Kill him! My brother!\"\n\n\"And why not?\"--with a quick gleam of her white teeth. \"He would have\nkilled you. I know him, and I read it in his eyes. Had I had your staff\nI would have tried--aye, and done it, too.\" She shook her clenched white\nhand as she spoke, and her lips tightened ominously.\n\n\"I am already sad in heart for what I have done,\" said he, sitting down\non the bank, and sinking his face into his hands. \"God help me!--all\nthat is worst in me seemed to come uppermost. Another instant, and I\nhad smitten him: the son of my own mother, the man whom I have longed to\ntake to my heart. Alas! that I should still be so weak.\"\n\n\"Weak!\" she exclaimed, raising her black eyebrows. \"I do not think that\neven my father himself, who is a hard judge of manhood, would call you\nthat. But it is, as you may think, sir, a very pleasant thing for me to\nhear that you are grieved at what you have done, and I can but rede\nthat we should go back together, and you should make your peace with the\nSocman by handing back your prisoner. It is a sad thing that so small a\nthing as a woman should come between two who are of one blood.\"\n\nSimple Alleyne opened his eyes at this little spurt of feminine\nbitterness. \"Nay, lady,\" said he, \"that were worst of all. What man\nwould be so caitiff and thrall as to fail you at your need? I have\nturned my brother against me, and now, alas! I appear to have given you\noffence also with my clumsy tongue. But, indeed, lady, I am torn both\nways, and can scarce grasp in my mind what it is that has befallen.\"\n\n\"Nor can I marvel at that,\" said she, with a little tinkling laugh. \"You\ncame in as the knight does in the jongleur's romances, between dragon\nand damsel, with small time for the asking of questions. Come,\" she went\non, springing to her feet, and smoothing down her rumpled frock, \"let us\nwalk through the shaw together, and we may come upon Bertrand with the\nhorses. If poor Troubadour had not cast a shoe, we should not have had\nthis trouble. Nay, I must have your arm: for, though I speak lightly,\nnow that all is happily over I am as frightened as my brave Roland. See\nhow his chest heaves, and his dear feathers all awry--the little knight\nwho would not have his lady mishandled.\" So she prattled on to her hawk,\nwhile Alleyne walked by her side, stealing a glance from time to time at\nthis queenly and wayward woman. In silence they wandered together over\nthe velvet turf and on through the broad Minstead woods, where the\nold lichen-draped beeches threw their circles of black shadow upon the\nsunlit sward.\n\n\"You have no wish, then, to hear my story?\" said she, at last.\n\n\"If it pleases you to tell it me,\" he answered.\n\n\"Oh!\" she cried tossing her head, \"if it is of so little interest to\nyou, we had best let it bide.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said he eagerly, \"I would fain hear it.\"\n\n\"You have a right to know it, if you have lost a brother's favor through\nit. And yet----Ah well, you are, as I understand, a clerk, so I\nmust think of you as one step further in orders, and make you my\nfather-confessor. Know then that this man has been a suitor for my hand,\nless as I think for my own sweet sake than because he hath ambition and\nhad it on his mind that he might improve his fortunes by dipping into\nmy father's strong box--though the Virgin knows that he would have found\nlittle enough therein. My father, however, is a proud man, a gallant\nknight and tried soldier of the oldest blood, to whom this man's\nchurlish birth and low descent----Oh, lackaday! I had forgot that he was\nof the same strain as yourself.\"\n\n\"Nay, trouble not for that,\" said Alleyne, \"we are all from good mother\nEve.\"\n\n\"Streams may spring from one source, and yet some be clear and some be\nfoul,\" quoth she quickly. \"But, to be brief over the matter, my father\nwould have none of his wooing, nor in sooth would I. On that he swore\na vow against us, and as he is known to be a perilous man, with many\noutlaws and others at his back, my father forbade that I should hawk or\nhunt in any part of the wood to the north of the Christchurch road. As\nit chanced, however, this morning my little Roland here was loosed at a\nstrong-winged heron, and page Bertrand and I rode on, with no thoughts\nbut for the sport, until we found ourselves in Minstead woods. Small\nharm then, but that my horse Troubadour trod with a tender foot upon a\nsharp stick, rearing and throwing me to the ground. See to my gown, the\nthird that I have befouled within the week. Woe worth me when Agatha the\ntire-woman sets eyes upon it!\"\n\n\"And what then, lady?\" asked Alleyne.\n\n\"Why, then away ran Troubadour, for belike I spurred him in falling,\nand Bertrand rode after him as hard as hoofs could bear him. When I rose\nthere was the Socman himself by my side, with the news that I was on\nhis land, but with so many courteous words besides, and such gallant\nbearing, that he prevailed upon me to come to his house for shelter,\nthere to wait until the page return. By the grace of the Virgin and the\nhelp of my patron St. Magdalen, I stopped short ere I reached his\ndoor, though, as you saw, he strove to hale me up to it. And\nthen--ah-h-h-h!\"--she shivered and chattered like one in an ague-fit.\n\n\"What is it?\" cried Alleyne, looking about in alarm.\n\n\"Nothing, friend, nothing! I was but thinking how I bit into his hand.\nSooner would I bite living toad or poisoned snake. Oh, I shall loathe my\nlips forever! But you--how brave you were, and how quick! How meek for\nyourself, and how bold for a stranger! If I were a man, I should wish to\ndo what you have done.\"\n\n\"It was a small thing,\" he answered, with a tingle of pleasure at these\nsweet words of praise. \"But you--what will you do?\"\n\n\"There is a great oak near here, and I think that Bertrand will bring\nthe horses there, for it is an old hunting-tryst of ours. Then hey for\nhome, and no more hawking to-day! A twelve-mile gallop will dry feet and\nskirt.\"\n\n\"But your father?\"\n\n\"Not one word shall I tell him. You do not know him; but I can tell you\nhe is not a man to disobey as I have disobeyed him. He would avenge me,\nit is true, but it is not to him that I shall look for vengeance. Some\nday, perchance, in joust or in tourney, knight may wish to wear my\ncolors, and then I shall tell him that if he does indeed crave my favor\nthere is wrong unredressed, and the wronger the Socman of Minstead. So\nmy knight shall find a venture such as bold knights love, and my debt\nshall be paid, and my father none the wiser, and one rogue the less in\nthe world. Say, is not that a brave plan?\"\n\n\"Nay, lady, it is a thought which is unworthy of you. How can such as\nyou speak of violence and of vengeance. Are none to be gentle and kind,\nnone to be piteous and forgiving? Alas! it is a hard, cruel world, and I\nwould that I had never left my abbey cell. To hear such words from your\nlips is as though I heard an angel of grace preaching the devil's own\ncreed.\"\n\nShe started from him as a young colt who first feels the bit. \"Gramercy\nfor your rede, young sir!\" she said, with a little curtsey. \"As I\nunderstand your words, you are grieved that you ever met me, and look\nupon me as a preaching devil. Why, my father is a bitter man when he is\nwroth, but hath never called me such a name as that. It may be his right\nand duty, but certes it is none of thine. So it would be best, since you\nthink so lowly of me, that you should take this path to the left while\nI keep on upon this one; for it is clear that I can be no fit companion\nfor you.\" So saying, with downcast lids and a dignity which was somewhat\nmarred by her bedraggled skirt, she swept off down the muddy track,\nleaving Alleyne standing staring ruefully after her. He waited in vain\nfor some backward glance or sign of relenting, but she walked on with\na rigid neck until her dress was only a white flutter among the leaves.\nThen, with a sunken head and a heavy heart, he plodded wearily down the\nother path, wroth with himself for the rude and uncouth tongue which had\ngiven offence where so little was intended.\n\nHe had gone some way, lost in doubt and in self-reproach, his mind all\ntremulous with a thousand new-found thoughts and fears and wonderments,\nwhen of a sudden there was a light rustle of the leaves behind him, and,\nglancing round, there was this graceful, swift-footed creature, treading\nin his very shadow, with her proud head bowed, even as his was--the\npicture of humility and repentance.\n\n\"I shall not vex you, nor even speak,\" she said; \"but I would fain keep\nwith you while we are in the wood.\"\n\n\"Nay, you cannot vex me,\" he answered, all warm again at the very sight\nof her. \"It was my rough words which vexed you; but I have been thrown\namong men all my life, and indeed, with all the will, I scarce know how\nto temper my speech to a lady's ear.\"\n\n\"Then unsay it,\" cried she quickly; \"say that I was right to wish to\nhave vengeance on the Socman.\"\n\n\"Nay, I cannot do that,\" he answered gravely.\n\n\"Then who is ungentle and unkind now?\" she cried in triumph. \"How stern\nand cold you are for one so young! Art surely no mere clerk, but bishop\nor cardinal at the least. Shouldst have crozier for staff and mitre\nfor cap. Well, well, for your sake I will forgive the Socman and take\nvengeance on none but on my own wilful self who must needs run into\ndanger's path. So will that please you, sir?\"\n\n\"There spoke your true self,\" said he; \"and you will find more pleasure\nin such forgiveness than in any vengeance.\"\n\nShe shook her head, as if by no means assured of it, and then with a\nsudden little cry, which had more of surprise than of joy in it, \"Here\nis Bertrand with the horses!\"\n\nDown the glade there came a little green-clad page with laughing eyes,\nand long curls floating behind him. He sat perched on a high bay horse,\nand held on to the bridle of a spirited black palfrey, the hides of both\nglistening from a long run.\n\n\"I have sought you everywhere, dear Lady Maude,\" said he in a\npiping voice, springing down from his horse and holding the stirrup.\n\"Troubadour galloped as far as Holmhill ere I could catch him. I trust\nthat you have had no hurt or scath?\" He shot a questioning glance at\nAlleyne as he spoke.\n\n\"No, Bertrand,\" said she, \"thanks to this courteous stranger. And now,\nsir,\" she continued, springing into her saddle, \"it is not fit that I\nleave you without a word more. Clerk or no, you have acted this day as\nbecomes a true knight. King Arthur and all his table could not have done\nmore. It may be that, as some small return, my father or his kin may\nhave power to advance your interest. He is not rich, but he is honored\nand hath great friends. Tell me what is your purpose, and see if he may\nnot aid it.\"\n\n\"Alas! lady, I have now no purpose. I have but two friends in the world,\nand they have gone to Christchurch, where it is likely I shall join\nthem.\"\n\n\"And where is Christchurch?\"\n\n\"At the castle which is held by the brave knight, Sir Nigel Loring,\nconstable to the Earl of Salisbury.\"\n\nTo his surprise she burst out a-laughing, and, spurring her palfrey,\ndashed off down the glade, with her page riding behind her. Not one word\ndid she say, but as she vanished amid the trees she half turned in her\nsaddle and waved a last greeting. Long time he stood, half hoping that\nshe might again come back to him; but the thud of the hoofs had died\naway, and there was no sound in all the woods but the gentle rustle and\ndropping of the leaves. At last he turned away and made his way back to\nthe high-road--another person from the light-hearted boy who had left it\na short three hours before.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X. HOW HORDLE JOHN FOUND A MAN WHOM HE MIGHT FOLLOW.\n\n\nIf he might not return to Beaulieu within the year, and if his brother's\ndogs were to be set upon him if he showed face upon Minstead land, then\nindeed he was adrift upon earth. North, south, east, and west--he might\nturn where he would, but all was equally chill and cheerless. The Abbot\nhad rolled ten silver crowns in a lettuce-leaf and hid them away in the\nbottom of his scrip, but that would be a sorry support for twelve long\nmonths. In all the darkness there was but the one bright spot of the\nsturdy comrades whom he had left that morning; if he could find them\nagain all would be well. The afternoon was not very advanced, for all\nthat had befallen him. When a man is afoot at cock-crow much may be done\nin the day. If he walked fast he might yet overtake his friends ere they\nreached their destination. He pushed on therefore, now walking and now\nrunning. As he journeyed he bit into a crust which remained from his\nBeaulieu bread, and he washed it down by a draught from a woodland\nstream.\n\nIt was no easy or light thing to journey through this great forest,\nwhich was some twenty miles from east to west and a good sixteen from\nBramshaw Woods in the north to Lymington in the south. Alleyne, however,\nhad the good fortune to fall in with a woodman, axe upon shoulder,\ntrudging along in the very direction that he wished to go. With his\nguidance he passed the fringe of Bolderwood Walk, famous for old ash\nand yew, through Mark Ash with its giant beech-trees, and on through\nthe Knightwood groves, where the giant oak was already a great tree,\nbut only one of many comely brothers. They plodded along together, the\nwoodman and Alleyne, with little talk on either side, for their thoughts\nwere as far asunder as the poles. The peasant's gossip had been of the\nhunt, of the bracken, of the gray-headed kites that had nested in Wood\nFidley, and of the great catch of herring brought back by the boats of\nPitt's Deep. The clerk's mind was on his brother, on his future--above\nall on this strange, fierce, melting, beautiful woman who had broken\nso suddenly into his life, and as suddenly passed out of it again. So\n_distrait_ was he and so random his answers, that the woodman took\nto whistling, and soon branched off upon the track to Burley, leaving\nAlleyne upon the main Christchurch road.\n\nDown this he pushed as fast as he might, hoping at every turn and rise\nto catch sight of his companions of the morning. From Vinney Ridge to\nRhinefield Walk the woods grow thick and dense up to the very edges of\nthe track, but beyond the country opens up into broad dun-colored moors,\nflecked with clumps of trees, and topping each other in long, low curves\nup to the dark lines of forest in the furthest distance. Clouds of\ninsects danced and buzzed in the golden autumn light, and the air was\nfull of the piping of the song-birds. Long, glinting dragonflies shot\nacross the path, or hung tremulous with gauzy wings and gleaming bodies.\nOnce a white-necked sea eagle soared screaming high over the traveller's\nhead, and again a flock of brown bustards popped up from among the\nbracken, and blundered away in their clumsy fashion, half running, half\nflying, with strident cry and whirr of wings.\n\nThere were folk, too, to be met upon the road--beggars and couriers,\nchapmen and tinkers--cheery fellows for the most part, with a rough jest\nand homely greeting for each other and for Alleyne. Near Shotwood he\ncame upon five seamen, on their way from Poole to Southampton--rude\nred-faced men, who shouted at him in a jargon which he could scarce\nunderstand, and held out to him a great pot from which they had been\ndrinking--nor would they let him pass until he had dipped pannikin in\nand taken a mouthful, which set him coughing and choking, with the tears\nrunning down his cheeks. Further on he met a sturdy black-bearded man,\nmounted on a brown horse, with a rosary in his right hand and a long\ntwo-handed sword jangling against his stirrup-iron. By his black robe\nand the eight-pointed cross upon his sleeve, Alleyne recognized him\nas one of the Knights Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusalem, whose\npresbytery was at Baddesley. He held up two fingers as he passed, with a\n\"_Benedic, fili mi!_\" whereat Alleyne doffed hat and bent knee, looking\nwith much reverence at one who had devoted his life to the overthrow of\nthe infidel. Poor simple lad! he had not learned yet that what men are\nand what men profess to be are very wide asunder, and that the Knights\nof St. John, having come into large part of the riches of the ill-fated\nTemplars, were very much too comfortable to think of exchanging their\npalace for a tent, or the cellars of England for the thirsty deserts of\nSyria. Yet ignorance may be more precious than wisdom, for Alleyne as he\nwalked on braced himself to a higher life by the thought of this other's\nsacrifice, and strengthened himself by his example which he could scarce\nhave done had he known that the Hospitaller's mind ran more upon malmsey\nthan on Mamelukes, and on venison rather than victories.\n\nAs he pressed on the plain turned to woods once more in the region of\nWilverley Walk, and a cloud swept up from the south with the sun shining\nthrough the chinks of it. A few great drops came pattering loudly\ndown, and then in a moment the steady swish of a brisk shower, with\nthe dripping and dropping of the leaves. Alleyne, glancing round for\nshelter, saw a thick and lofty holly-bush, so hollowed out beneath that\nno house could have been drier. Under this canopy of green two men were\nalready squatted, who waved their hands to Alleyne that he should join\nthem. As he approached he saw that they had five dried herrings laid\nout in front of them, with a great hunch of wheaten bread and a leathern\nflask full of milk, but instead of setting to at their food they\nappeared to have forgot all about it, and were disputing together with\nflushed faces and angry gestures. It was easy to see by their dress and\nmanner that they were two of those wandering students who formed about\nthis time so enormous a multitude in every country in Europe. The one\nwas long and thin, with melancholy features, while the other was fat and\nsleek, with a loud voice and the air of a man who is not to be gainsaid.\n\n\"Come hither, good youth,\" he cried, \"come hither! _Vultus ingenui\npuer_. Heed not the face of my good coz here. _Foenum habet in cornu_,\nas Don Horace has it; but I warrant him harmless for all that.\"\n\n\"Stint your bull's bellowing!\" exclaimed the other. \"If it come to\nHorace, I have a line in my mind: _Loquaces si sapiat_----How doth it\nrun? The English o't being that a man of sense should ever avoid a great\ntalker. That being so, if all were men of sense then thou wouldst be a\nlonesome man, coz.\"\n\n\"Alas! Dicon, I fear that your logic is as bad as your philosophy or\nyour divinity--and God wot it would be hard to say a worse word than\nthat for it. For, hark ye: granting, _propter argumentum_, that I am a\ntalker, then the true reasoning runs that since all men of sense should\navoid me, and thou hast not avoided me, but art at the present moment\neating herrings with me under a holly-bush, ergo you are no man of\nsense, which is exactly what I have been dinning into your long ears\never since I first clapped eyes on your sunken chops.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" cried the other. \"Your tongue goes like the clapper of\na mill-wheel. Sit down here, friend, and partake of this herring.\nUnderstand first, however, that there are certain conditions attached to\nit.\"\n\n\"I had hoped,\" said Alleyne, falling into the humor of the twain, \"that\na tranchoir of bread and a draught of milk might be attached to it.\"\n\n\"Hark to him, hark to him!\" cried the little fat man. \"It is even thus,\nDicon! Wit, lad, is a catching thing, like the itch or the sweating\nsickness. I exude it round me; it is an aura. I tell you, coz, that no\nman can come within seventeen feet of me without catching a spark. Look\nat your own case. A duller man never stepped, and yet within the week\nyou have said three things which might pass, and one thing the day we\nleft Fordingbridge which I should not have been ashamed of myself.\"\n\n\"Enough, rattle-pate, enough!\" said the other. \"The milk you shall have\nand the bread also, friend, together with the herring, but you must hold\nthe scales between us.\"\n\n\"If he hold the herring he holds the scales, my sapient brother,\" cried\nthe fat man. \"But I pray you, good youth, to tell us whether you are a\nlearned clerk, and, if so, whether you have studied at Oxenford or at\nParis.\"\n\n\"I have some small stock of learning,\" Alleyne answered, picking at his\nherring, \"but I have been at neither of these places. I was bred amongst\nthe Cistercian monks at Beaulieu Abbey.\"\n\n\"Pooh, pooh!\" they cried both together. \"What sort of an upbringing is\nthat?\"\n\n\"_Non cuivis contingit adire Corinthum_,\" quoth Alleyne.\n\n\"Come, brother Stephen, he hath some tincture of letters,\" said the\nmelancholy man more hopefully. \"He may be the better judge, since he\nhath no call to side with either of us. Now, attention, friend, and let\nyour ears work as well as your nether jaw. _Judex damnatur_--you know\nthe old saw. Here am I upholding the good fame of the learned Duns\nScotus against the foolish quibblings and poor silly reasonings of\nWillie Ockham.\"\n\n\"While I,\" quoth the other loudly, \"do maintain the good sense\nand extraordinary wisdom of that most learned William against the\ncrack-brained fantasies of the muddy Scotchman, who hath hid such little\nwit as he has under so vast a pile of words, that it is like one drop of\nGascony in a firkin of ditch-water. Solomon his wisdom would not suffice\nto say what the rogue means.\"\n\n\"Certes, Stephen Hapgood, his wisdom doth not suffice,\" cried the other.\n\"It is as though a mole cried out against the morning star, because he\ncould not see it. But our dispute, friend, is concerning the nature of\nthat subtle essence which we call thought. For I hold with the learned\nScotus that thought is in very truth a thing, even as vapor or fumes,\nor many other substances which our gross bodily eyes are blind to. For,\nlook you, that which produces a thing must be itself a thing, and if a\nman's thought may produce a written book, then must thought itself be a\nmaterial thing, even as the book is. Have I expressed it? Do I make it\nplain?\"\n\n\"Whereas I hold,\" shouted the other, \"with my revered preceptor,\n_doctor, praeclarus et excellentissimus_, that all things are but\nthought; for when thought is gone I prythee where are the things then?\nHere are trees about us, and I see them because I think I see them, but\nif I have swooned, or sleep, or am in wine, then, my thought having gone\nforth from me, lo the trees go forth also. How now, coz, have I touched\nthee on the raw?\"\n\nAlleyne sat between them munching his bread, while the twain disputed\nacross his knees, leaning forward with flushed faces and darting\nhands, in all the heat of argument. Never had he heard such jargon of\nscholastic philosophy, such fine-drawn distinctions, such cross-fire of\nmajor and minor, proposition, syllogism, attack and refutation. Question\nclattered upon answer like a sword on a buckler. The ancients, the\nfathers of the Church, the moderns, the Scriptures, the Arabians, were\neach sent hurtling against the other, while the rain still dripped and\nthe dark holly-leaves glistened with the moisture. At last the fat man\nseemed to weary of it, for he set to work quietly upon his meal, while\nhis opponent, as proud as the rooster who is left unchallenged upon the\nmidden, crowed away in a last long burst of quotation and deduction.\nSuddenly, however, his eyes dropped upon his food, and he gave a howl of\ndismay.\n\n\"You double thief!\" he cried, \"you have eaten my herrings, and I without\nbite or sup since morning.\"\n\n\"That,\" quoth the other complacently, \"was my final argument, my\ncrowning effort, or _peroratio_, as the orators have it. For, coz, since\nall thoughts are things, you have but to think a pair of herrings, and\nthen conjure up a pottle of milk wherewith to wash them down.\"\n\n\"A brave piece of reasoning,\" cried the other, \"and I know of but one\nreply to it.\" On which, leaning forward, he caught his comrade a rousing\nsmack across his rosy cheek. \"Nay, take it not amiss,\" he said, \"since\nall things are but thoughts, then that also is but a thought and may be\ndisregarded.\"\n\nThis last argument, however, by no means commended itself to the pupil\nof Ockham, who plucked a great stick from the ground and signified his\ndissent by smiting the realist over the pate with it. By good fortune,\nthe wood was so light and rotten that it went to a thousand splinters,\nbut Alleyne thought it best to leave the twain to settle the matter at\ntheir leisure, the more so as the sun was shining brightly once\nmore. Looking back down the pool-strewn road, he saw the two excited\nphilosophers waving their hands and shouting at each other, but their\nbabble soon became a mere drone in the distance, and a turn in the road\nhid them from his sight.\n\nAnd now after passing Holmesley Walk and the Wooton Heath, the forest\nbegan to shred out into scattered belts of trees, with gleam of\ncorn-field and stretch of pasture-land between. Here and there by the\nwayside stood little knots of wattle-and-daub huts with shock-haired\nlaborers lounging by the doors and red-cheeked children sprawling in\nthe roadway. Back among the groves he could see the high gable ends and\nthatched roofs of the franklins' houses, on whose fields these men found\nemployment, or more often a thick dark column of smoke marked their\nposition and hinted at the coarse plenty within. By these signs Alleyne\nknew that he was on the very fringe of the forest, and therefore no\ngreat way from Christchurch. The sun was lying low in the west and\nshooting its level rays across the long sweep of rich green country,\nglinting on the white-fleeced sheep and throwing long shadows from the\nred kine who waded knee-deep in the juicy clover. Right glad was the\ntraveller to see the high tower of Christchurch Priory gleaming in the\nmellow evening light, and gladder still when, on rounding a corner, he\ncame upon his comrades of the morning seated astraddle upon a fallen\ntree. They had a flat space before them, on which they alternately threw\nlittle square pieces of bone, and were so intent upon their occupation\nthat they never raised eye as he approached them. He observed with\nastonishment, as he drew near, that the archer's bow was on John's\nback, the archer's sword by John's side, and the steel cap laid upon the\ntree-trunk between them.\n\n\"Mort de ma vie!\" Aylward shouted, looking down at the dice. \"Never had\nI such cursed luck. A murrain on the bones! I have not thrown a good\nmain since I left Navarre. A one and a three! En avant, camarade!\"\n\n\"Four and three,\" cried Hordle John, counting on his great fingers,\n\"that makes seven. Ho, archer, I have thy cap! Now have at thee for thy\njerkin!\"\n\n\"Mon Dieu!\" he growled, \"I am like to reach Christchurch in my shirt.\"\nThen suddenly glancing up, \"Hola, by the splendor of heaven, here is our\ncher petit! Now, by my ten finger bones! this is a rare sight to mine\neyes.\" He sprang up and threw his arms round Alleyne's neck, while\nJohn, no less pleased, but more backward and Saxon in his habits, stood\ngrinning and bobbing by the wayside, with his newly won steel cap stuck\nwrong side foremost upon his tangle of red hair.\n\n\"Hast come to stop?\" cried the bowman, patting Alleyne all over in his\ndelight. \"Shall not get away from us again!\"\n\n\"I wish no better,\" said he, with a pringling in the eyes at this hearty\ngreeting.\n\n\"Well said, lad!\" cried big John. \"We three shall to the wars together,\nand the devil may fly away with the Abbot of Beaulieu! But your feet\nand hosen are all besmudged. Hast been in the water, or I am the more\nmistaken.\"\n\n\"I have in good sooth,\" Alleyne answered, and then as they journeyed\non their way he told them the many things that had befallen him, his\nmeeting with the villein, his sight of the king, his coming upon his\nbrother, with all the tale of the black welcome and of the fair damsel.\nThey strode on either side, each with an ear slanting towards him, but\nere he had come to the end of his story the bowman had spun round upon\nhis heel, and was hastening back the way they had come, breathing loudly\nthrough his nose.\n\n\"What then?\" asked Alleyne, trotting after him and gripping at his\njerkin.\n\n\"I am back for Minstead, lad.\"\n\n\"And why, in the name of sense?\"\n\n\"To thrust a handful of steel into the Socman. What! hale a demoiselle\nagainst her will, and then loose dogs at his own brother! Let me go!\"\n\n\"Nenny, nenny!\" cried Alleyne, laughing. \"There was no scath done. Come\nback, friend\"--and so, by mingled pushing and entreaties, they got his\nhead round for Christchurch once more. Yet he walked with his chin upon\nhis shoulder, until, catching sight of a maiden by a wayside well, the\nsmiles came back to his face and peace to his heart.\n\n\"But you,\" said Alleyne, \"there have been changes with you also. Why\nshould not the workman carry his tools? Where are bow and sword and\ncap--and why so warlike, John?\"\n\n\"It is a game which friend Aylward hath been a-teaching of me.\"\n\n\"And I found him an over-apt pupil,\" grumbled the bowman. \"He hath\nstripped me as though I had fallen into the hands of the tardvenus. But,\nby my hilt! you must render them back to me, camarade, lest you bring\ndiscredit upon my mission, and I will pay you for them at armorers'\nprices.\"\n\n\"Take them back, man, and never heed the pay,\" said John. \"I did but\nwish to learn the feel of them, since I am like to have such trinkets\nhung to my own girdle for some years to come.\"\n\n\"Ma foi, he was born for a free companion!\" cried Aylward, \"He hath the\nvery trick of speech and turn of thought. I take them back then, and\nindeed it gives me unease not to feel my yew-stave tapping against my\nleg bone. But see, mes garcons, on this side of the church rises the\nsquare and darkling tower of Earl Salisbury's castle, and even from here\nI seem to see on yonder banner the red roebuck of the Montacutes.\"\n\n\"Red upon white,\" said Alleyne, shading his eyes; \"but whether roebuck\nor no is more than I could vouch. How black is the great tower, and\nhow bright the gleam of arms upon the wall! See below the flag, how it\ntwinkles like a star!\"\n\n\"Aye, it is the steel head-piece of the watchman,\" remarked the archer.\n\"But we must on, if we are to be there before the drawbridge rises at\nthe vespers bugle; for it is likely that Sir Nigel, being so renowned a\nsoldier, may keep hard discipline within the walls, and let no man enter\nafter sundown.\" So saying, he quickened his pace, and the three comrades\nwere soon close to the straggling and broad-spread town which centered\nround the noble church and the frowning castle.\n\nIt chanced on that very evening that Sir Nigel Loring, having supped\nbefore sunset, as was his custom, and having himself seen that Pommers\nand Cadsand, his two war-horses, with the thirteen hacks, the five\njennets, my lady's three palfreys, and the great dapple-gray roussin,\nhad all their needs supplied, had taken his dogs for an evening\nbreather. Sixty or seventy of them, large and small, smooth and\nshaggy--deer-hound, boar-hound, blood-hound, wolf-hound, mastiff, alaun,\ntalbot, lurcher, terrier, spaniel--snapping, yelling and whining, with\nscore of lolling tongues and waving tails, came surging down the narrow\nlane which leads from the Twynham kennels to the bank of Avon. Two\nrusset-clad varlets, with loud halloo and cracking whips, walked\nthigh-deep amid the swarm, guiding, controlling, and urging. Behind\ncame Sir Nigel himself, with Lady Loring upon his arm, the pair walking\nslowly and sedately, as befitted both their age and their condition,\nwhile they watched with a smile in their eyes the scrambling crowd in\nfront of them. They paused, however, at the bridge, and, leaning their\nelbows upon the stonework, they stood looking down at their own faces in\nthe glassy stream, and at the swift flash of speckled trout against the\ntawny gravel.\n\nSir Nigel was a slight man of poor stature, with soft lisping voice and\ngentle ways. So short was he that his wife, who was no very tall woman,\nhad the better of him by the breadth of three fingers. His sight having\nbeen injured in his early wars by a basketful of lime which had been\nemptied over him when he led the Earl of Derby's stormers up the breach\nat Bergerac, he had contracted something of a stoop, with a blinking,\npeering expression of face. His age was six and forty, but the constant\npractice of arms, together with a cleanly life, had preserved his\nactivity and endurance unimpaired, so that from a distance he seemed to\nhave the slight limbs and swift grace of a boy. His face, however, was\ntanned of a dull yellow tint, with a leathery, poreless look, which\nspoke of rough outdoor doings, and the little pointed beard which he\nwore, in deference to the prevailing fashion, was streaked and shot with\ngray. His features were small, delicate, and regular, with clear-cut,\ncurving nose, and eyes which jutted forward from the lids. His dress was\nsimple and yet spruce. A Flandrish hat of beevor, bearing in the band\nthe token of Our Lady of Embrun, was drawn low upon the left side to\nhide that ear which had been partly shorn from his head by a Flemish\nman-at-arms in a camp broil before Tournay. His cote-hardie, or tunic,\nand trunk-hosen were of a purple plum color, with long weepers which\nhung from either sleeve to below his knees. His shoes were of red\nleather, daintily pointed at the toes, but not yet prolonged to the\nextravagant lengths which the succeeding reign was to bring into\nfashion. A gold-embroidered belt of knighthood encircled his loins, with\nhis arms, five roses gules on a field argent, cunningly worked upon the\nclasp. So stood Sir Nigel Loring upon the bridge of Avon, and talked\nlightly with his lady.\n\nAnd, certes, had the two visages alone been seen, and the stranger been\nasked which were the more likely to belong to the bold warrior whose\nname was loved by the roughest soldiery of Europe, he had assuredly\nselected the lady's. Her face was large and square and red, with fierce,\nthick brows, and the eyes of one who was accustomed to rule. Taller and\nbroader than her husband, her flowing gown of sendall, and fur-lined\ntippet, could not conceal the gaunt and ungraceful outlines of her\nfigure. It was the age of martial women. The deeds of black Agnes of\nDunbar, of Lady Salisbury and of the Countess of Montfort, were still\nfresh in the public minds. With such examples before them the wives of\nthe English captains had become as warlike as their mates, and ordered\ntheir castles in their absence with the prudence and discipline of\nveteran seneschals. Right easy were the Montacutes of their Castle\nof Twynham, and little had they to dread from roving galley or French\nsquadron, while Lady Mary Loring had the ordering of it. Yet even in\nthat age it was thought that, though a lady might have a soldier's\nheart, it was scarce as well that she should have a soldier's face.\nThere were men who said that of all the stern passages and daring deeds\nby which Sir Nigel Loring had proved the true temper of his courage, not\nthe least was his wooing and winning of so forbidding a dame.\n\n\"I tell you, my fair lord,\" she was saying, \"that it is no fit training\nfor a demoiselle: hawks and hounds, rotes and citoles singing a French\nrondel, or reading the Gestes de Doon de Mayence, as I found her\nyesternight, pretending sleep, the artful, with the corner of the scroll\nthrusting forth from under her pillow. Lent her by Father Christopher of\nthe priory, forsooth--that is ever her answer. How shall all this help\nher when she has castle of her own to keep, with a hundred mouths all\nagape for beef and beer?\"\n\n\"True, my sweet bird, true,\" answered the knight, picking a comfit from\nhis gold drageoir. \"The maid is like the young filly, which kicks heels\nand plunges for very lust of life. Give her time, dame, give her time.\"\n\n\"Well, I know that my father would have given me, not time, but a good\nhazel-stick across my shoulders. Ma foi! I know not what the world is\ncoming to, when young maids may flout their elders. I wonder that you do\nnot correct her, my fair lord.\"\n\n\"Nay, my heart's comfort, I never raised hand to woman yet, and it would\nbe a passing strange thing if I began on my own flesh and blood. It was\na woman's hand which cast this lime into mine eyes, and though I saw\nher stoop, and might well have stopped her ere she threw, I deemed it\nunworthy of my knighthood to hinder or balk one of her sex.\"\n\n\"The hussy!\" cried Lady Loring clenching her broad right hand. \"I would\nI had been at the side of her!\"\n\n\"And so would I, since you would have been the nearer me my own. But\nI doubt not that you are right, and that Maude's wings need clipping,\nwhich I may leave in your hands when I am gone, for, in sooth, this\npeaceful life is not for me, and were it not for your gracious kindness\nand loving care I could not abide it a week. I hear that there is talk\nof warlike muster at Bordeaux once more, and by St. Paul! it would be a\nnew thing if the lions of England and the red pile of Chandos were to\nbe seen in the field, and the roses of Loring were not waving by their\nside.\"\n\n\"Now woe worth me but I feared it!\" cried she, with the color all struck\nfrom her face. \"I have noted your absent mind, your kindling eye, your\ntrying and riveting of old harness. Consider my sweet lord, that you\nhave already won much honor, that we have seen but little of each other,\nthat you bear upon your body the scar of over twenty wounds received\nin I know not how many bloody encounters. Have you not done enough for\nhonor and the public cause?\"\n\n\"My lady, when our liege lord, the king, at three score years, and my\nLord Chandos at three-score and ten, are blithe and ready to lay lance\nin rest for England's cause, it would ill be-seem me to prate of service\ndone. It is sooth that I have received seven and twenty wounds. There is\nthe more reason that I should be thankful that I am still long of breath\nand sound in limb. I have also seen some bickering and scuffling. Six\ngreat land battles I count, with four upon sea, and seven and fifty\nonfalls, skirmishes and bushments. I have held two and twenty towns,\nand I have been at the intaking of thirty-one. Surely then it would\nbe bitter shame to me, and also to you, since my fame is yours, that I\nshould now hold back if a man's work is to be done. Besides, bethink\nyou how low is our purse, with bailiff and reeve ever croaking of empty\nfarms and wasting lands. Were it not for this constableship which the\nEarl of Salisbury hath bestowed upon us we could scarce uphold the state\nwhich is fitting to our degree. Therefore, my sweeting, there is the\nmore need that I should turn to where there is good pay to be earned and\nbrave ransoms to be won.\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear lord,\" quoth she, with sad, weary eyes. \"I thought that at\nlast I had you to mine own self, even though your youth had been spent\nafar from my side. Yet my voice, as I know well, should speed you on to\nglory and renown, not hold you back when fame is to be won. Yet what can\nI say, for all men know that your valor needs the curb and not the\nspur. It goes to my heart that you should ride forth now a mere knight\nbachelor, when there is no noble in the land who hath so good a claim to\nthe square pennon, save only that you have not the money to uphold it.\"\n\n\"And whose fault that, my sweet bird?\" said he.\n\n\"No fault, my fair lord, but a virtue: for how many rich ransoms have\nyou won, and yet have scattered the crowns among page and archer and\nvarlet, until in a week you had not as much as would buy food and\nforage. It is a most knightly largesse, and yet withouten money how can\nman rise?\"\n\n\"Dirt and dross!\" cried he.\n\n\"What matter rise or fall, so that duty be done and honor gained.\nBanneret or bachelor, square pennon or forked, I would not give a denier\nfor the difference, and the less since Sir John Chandos, chosen flower\nof English chivalry, is himself but a humble knight. But meanwhile fret\nnot thyself, my heart's dove, for it is like that there may be no war\nwaged, and we must await the news. But here are three strangers, and\none, as I take it, a soldier fresh from service. It is likely that he\nmay give us word of what is stirring over the water.\"\n\nLady Loring, glancing up, saw in the fading light three companions\nwalking abreast down the road, all gray with dust, and stained with\ntravel, yet chattering merrily between themselves. He in the midst was\nyoung and comely, with boyish open face and bright gray eyes, which\nglanced from right to left as though he found the world around him both\nnew and pleasing. To his right walked a huge red-headed man, with\nbroad smile and merry twinkle, whose clothes seemed to be bursting and\nsplitting at every seam, as though he were some lusty chick who was\nbreaking bravely from his shell. On the other side, with his knotted\nhand upon the young man's shoulder, came a stout and burly archer, brown\nand fierce eyed, with sword at belt and long yellow yew-stave peeping\nover his shoulder. Hard face, battered head piece, dinted brigandine,\nwith faded red lion of St. George ramping on a discolored ground, all\nproclaimed as plainly as words that he was indeed from the land of war.\nHe looked keenly at Sir Nigel as he approached, and then, plunging his\nhand under his breastplate, he stepped up to him with a rough, uncouth\nbow to the lady.\n\n\"Your pardon, fair sir,\" said he, \"but I know you the moment I clap eyes\non you, though in sooth I have seen you oftener in steel than in velvet.\nI have drawn string besides you at La Roche-d'Errien, Romorantin,\nMaupertuis, Nogent, Auray, and other places.\"\n\n\"Then, good archer, I am right glad to welcome you to Twynham Castle,\nand in the steward's room you will find provant for yourself and\ncomrades. To me also your face is known, though mine eyes play such\ntricks with me that I can scarce be sure of my own squire. Rest awhile,\nand you shall come to the hall anon and tell us what is passing in\nFrance, for I have heard that it is likely that our pennons may flutter\nto the south of the great Spanish mountains ere another year be passed.\"\n\n\"There was talk of it in Bordeaux,\" answered the archer, \"and I\nsaw myself that the armorers and smiths were as busy as rats in a\nwheat-rick. But I bring you this letter from the valiant Gascon knight,\nSir Claude Latour. And to you, Lady,\" he added after a pause, \"I bring\nfrom him this box of red sugar of Narbonne, with every courteous and\nknightly greeting which a gallant cavalier may make to a fair and noble\ndame.\"\n\nThis little speech had cost the blunt bowman much pains and planning;\nbut he might have spared his breath, for the lady was quite as much\nabsorbed as her lord in the letter, which they held between them, a\nhand on either corner, spelling it out very slowly, with drawn brows and\nmuttering lips. As they read it, Alleyne, who stood with Hordle John a\nfew paces back from their comrade, saw the lady catch her breath, while\nthe knight laughed softly to himself.\n\n\"You see, dear heart,\" said he, \"that they will not leave the old dog\nin his kennel when the game is afoot. And what of this White Company,\narcher?\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, you speak of dogs,\" cried Aylward; \"but there are a pack\nof lusty hounds who are ready for any quarry, if they have but a good\nhuntsman to halloo them on. Sir, we have been in the wars together, and\nI have seen many a brave following but never such a set of woodland boys\nas this. They do but want you at their head, and who will bar the way to\nthem!\"\n\n\"Pardieu!\" said Sir Nigel, \"if they are all like their messenger, they\nare indeed men of whom a leader may be proud. Your name, good archer?\"\n\n\"Sam Aylward, sir, of the Hundred of Easebourne and the Rape of\nChichester.\"\n\n\"And this giant behind you?\"\n\n\"He is big John, of Hordle, a forest man, who hath now taken service in\nthe Company.\"\n\n\"A proper figure of a man at-arms,\" said the little knight. \"Why, man,\nyou are no chicken, yet I warrant him the stronger man. See to that\ngreat stone from the coping which hath fallen upon the bridge. Four of\nmy lazy varlets strove this day to carry it hence. I would that you two\ncould put them to shame by budging it, though I fear that I overtask\nyou, for it is of a grievous weight.\"\n\nHe pointed as he spoke to a huge rough-hewn block which lay by the\nroadside, deep sunken from its own weight in the reddish earth. The\narcher approached it, rolling back the sleeves of his jerkin, but with\nno very hopeful countenance, for indeed it was a mighty rock. John,\nhowever, put him aside with his left hand, and, stooping over the stone,\nhe plucked it single-handed from its soft bed and swung it far into the\nstream. There it fell with mighty splash, one jagged end peaking out\nabove the surface, while the waters bubbled and foamed with far-circling\neddy.\n\n\"Good lack!\" cried Sir Nigel, and \"Good lack!\" cried his lady, while\nJohn stood laughing and wiping the caked dirt from his fingers.\n\n\"I have felt his arms round my ribs,\" said the bowman, \"and they crackle\nyet at the thought of it. This other comrade of mine is a right learned\nclerk, for all that he is so young, hight Alleyne, the son of Edric,\nbrother to the Socman of Minstead.\"\n\n\"Young man,\" quoth Sir Nigel, sternly, \"if you are of the same way of\nthought as your brother, you may not pass under portcullis of mine.\"\n\n\"Nay, fair sir,\" cried Aylward hastily, \"I will be pledge for it that\nthey have no thought in common; for this very day his brother hath set\nhis dogs upon him, and driven him from his lands.\"\n\n\"And are you, too, of the White Company?\" asked Sir Nigel. \"Hast had\nsmall experience of war, if I may judge by your looks and bearing.\"\n\n\"I would fain to France with my friends here,\" Alleyne answered; \"but I\nam a man of peace--a reader, exorcist, acolyte, and clerk.\"\n\n\"That need not hinder,\" quoth Sir Nigel.\n\n\"No, fair sir,\" cried the bowman joyously. \"Why, I myself have served\ntwo terms with Arnold de Cervolles, he whom they called the archpriest.\nBy my hilt! I have seen him ere now, with monk's gown trussed to his\nknees, over his sandals in blood in the fore-front of the battle. Yet,\nere the last string had twanged, he would be down on his four bones\namong the stricken, and have them all houseled and shriven, as quick as\nshelling peas. Ma foi! there were those who wished that he would have\nless care for their souls and a little more for their bodies!\"\n\n\"It is well to have a learned clerk in every troop,\" said Sir Nigel. \"By\nSt. Paul, there are men so caitiff that they think more of a scrivener's\npen than of their lady's smile, and do their devoir in hopes that they\nmay fill a line in a chronicle or make a tag to a jongleur's romance. I\nremember well that, at the siege of Retters, there was a little, sleek,\nfat clerk of the name of Chaucer, who was so apt at rondel, sirvente, or\ntonson, that no man dare give back a foot from the walls, lest he find\nit all set down in his rhymes and sung by every underling and varlet\nin the camp. But, my soul's bird, you hear me prate as though all were\ndecided, when I have not yet taken counsel either with you or with my\nlady mother. Let us to the chamber, while these strangers find such fare\nas pantry and cellar may furnish.\"\n\n\"The night air strikes chill,\" said the lady, and turned down the road\nwith her hand upon her lord's arm. The three comrades dropped behind and\nfollowed: Aylward much the lighter for having accomplished his mission,\nAlleyne full of wonderment at the humble bearing of so renowned\na captain, and John loud with snorts and sneers, which spoke his\ndisappointment and contempt.\n\n\"What ails the man?\" asked Aylward in surprise.\n\n\"I have been cozened and bejaped,\" quoth he gruffly.\n\n\"By whom, Sir Samson the strong?\"\n\n\"By thee, Sir Balaam the false prophet.\"\n\n\"By my hilt!\" cried the archer, \"though I be not Balaam, yet I hold\nconverse with the very creature that spake to him. What is amiss, then,\nand how have I played you false?\"\n\n\"Why, marry, did you not say, and Alleyne here will be my witness, that,\nif I would hie to the wars with you, you would place me under a leader\nwho was second to none in all England for valor? Yet here you bring me\nto a shred of a man, peaky and ill-nourished, with eyes like a moulting\nowl, who must needs, forsooth, take counsel with his mother ere he\nbuckle sword to girdle.\"\n\n\"Is that where the shoe galls?\" cried the bowman, and laughed aloud.\n\"I will ask you what you think of him three months hence, if we be all\nalive; for sure I am that----\"\n\nAylward's words were interrupted by an extraordinary hubbub which broke\nout that instant some little way down the street in the direction of the\nPriory. There was deep-mouthed shouting of men, frightened shrieks of\nwomen, howling and barking of curs, and over all a sullen, thunderous\nrumble, indescribably menacing and terrible. Round the corner of the\nnarrow street there came rushing a brace of whining dogs with tails\ntucked under their legs, and after them a white-faced burgher, with\noutstretched hands and wide-spread fingers, his hair all abristle and\nhis eyes glinting back from one shoulder to the other, as though some\ngreat terror were at his very heels. \"Fly, my lady, fly!\" he screeched,\nand whizzed past them like bolt from bow; while close behind came\nlumbering a huge black bear, with red tongue lolling from his mouth, and\na broken chain jangling behind him. To right and left the folk flew for\narch and doorway. Hordle John caught up the Lady Loring as though\nshe had been a feather, and sprang with her into an open porch; while\nAylward, with a whirl of French oaths, plucked at his quiver and tried\nto unsling his bow. Alleyne, all unnerved at so strange and unwonted a\nsight, shrunk up against the wall with his eyes fixed upon the frenzied\ncreature, which came bounding along with ungainly speed, looking the\nlarger in the uncertain light, its huge jaws agape, with blood and\nslaver trickling to the ground. Sir Nigel alone, unconscious to all\nappearance of the universal panic, walked with unfaltering step up\nthe centre of the road, a silken handkerchief in one hand and his gold\ncomfit-box in the other. It sent the blood cold through Alleyne's veins\nto see that as they came together--the man and the beast--the creature\nreared up, with eyes ablaze with fear and hate, and whirled its great\npaws above the knight to smite him to the earth. He, however, blinking\nwith puckered eyes, reached up his kerchief, and flicked the beast twice\nacross the snout with it. \"Ah, saucy! saucy,\" quoth he, with gentle\nchiding; on which the bear, uncertain and puzzled, dropped its four legs\nto earth again, and, waddling back, was soon swathed in ropes by the\nbear-ward and a crowd of peasants who had been in close pursuit.\n\nA scared man was the keeper; for, having chained the brute to a stake\nwhile he drank a stoup of ale at the inn, it had been baited by stray\ncurs, until, in wrath and madness, it had plucked loose the chain, and\nsmitten or bitten all who came in its path. Most scared of all was he\nto find that the creature had come nigh to harm the Lord and Lady of the\ncastle, who had power to place him in the stretch-neck or to have the\nskin scourged from his shoulders. Yet, when he came with bowed head\nand humble entreaty for forgiveness, he was met with a handful of\nsmall silver from Sir Nigel, whose dame, however, was less charitably\ndisposed, being much ruffled in her dignity by the manner in which she\nhad been hustled from her lord's side.\n\nAs they passed through the castle gate, John plucked at Aylward's\nsleeve, and the two fell behind.\n\n\"I must crave your pardon, comrade,\" said he, bluntly. \"I was a fool not\nto know that a little rooster may be the gamest. I believe that this man\nis indeed a leader whom we may follow.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI. HOW A YOUNG SHEPHERD HAD A PERILOUS FLOCK.\n\n\nBlack was the mouth of Twynham Castle, though a pair of torches burning\nat the further end of the gateway cast a red glare over the outer\nbailey, and sent a dim, ruddy flicker through the rough-hewn arch,\nrising and falling with fitful brightness. Over the door the travellers\ncould discern the escutcheon of the Montacutes, a roebuck gules on a\nfield argent, flanked on either side by smaller shields which bore the\nred roses of the veteran constable. As they passed over the drawbridge,\nAlleyne marked the gleam of arms in the embrasures to right and left,\nand they had scarce set foot upon the causeway ere a hoarse blare\nburst from a bugle, and, with screech of hinge and clank of chain, the\nponderous bridge swung up into the air, drawn by unseen hands. At the\nsame instant the huge portcullis came rattling down from above, and shut\noff the last fading light of day. Sir Nigel and his lady walked on in\ndeep talk, while a fat under-steward took charge of the three comrades,\nand led them to the buttery, where beef, bread, and beer were kept ever\nin readiness for the wayfarer. After a hearty meal and a dip in the\ntrough to wash the dust from them, they strolled forth into the bailey,\nwhere the bowman peered about through the darkness at wall and at keep,\nwith the carping eyes of one who has seen something of sieges, and is\nnot likely to be satisfied. To Alleyne and to John, however, it appeared\nto be as great and as stout a fortress as could be built by the hands of\nman.\n\nErected by Sir Balwin de Redvers in the old fighting days of the twelfth\ncentury, when men thought much of war and little of comfort, Castle\nTwynham had been designed as a stronghold pure and simple, unlike those\nlater and more magnificent structures where warlike strength had been\ncombined with the magnificence of a palace. From the time of the Edwards\nsuch buildings as Conway or Caernarvon castles, to say nothing of Royal\nWindsor, had shown that it was possible to secure luxury in peace as\nwell as security in times of trouble. Sir Nigel's trust, however, still\nfrowned above the smooth-flowing waters of the Avon, very much as the\nstern race of early Anglo-Normans had designed it. There were the broad\nouter and inner bailies, not paved, but sown with grass to nourish the\nsheep and cattle which might be driven in on sign of danger. All round\nwere high and turreted walls, with at the corner a bare square-faced\nkeep, gaunt and windowless, rearing up from a lofty mound, which made it\nalmost inaccessible to an assailant. Against the bailey-walls were rows\nof frail wooden houses and leaning sheds, which gave shelter to the\narchers and men-at-arms who formed the garrison. The doors of these\nhumble dwellings were mostly open, and against the yellow glare from\nwithin Alleyne could see the bearded fellows cleaning their harness,\nwhile their wives would come out for a gossip, with their needlework in\ntheir hands, and their long black shadows streaming across the yard.\nThe air was full of the clack of their voices and the merry prattling of\nchildren, in strange contrast to the flash of arms and constant warlike\nchallenge from the walls above.\n\n\"Methinks a company of school lads could hold this place against an\narmy,\" quoth John.\n\n\"And so say I,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"Nay, there you are wide of the clout,\" the bowman said gravely. \"By my\nhilt! I have seen a stronger fortalice carried in a summer evening.\nI remember such a one in Picardy, with a name as long as a Gascon's\npedigree. It was when I served under Sir Robert Knolles, before the days\nof the Company; and we came by good plunder at the sacking of it. I had\nmyself a great silver bowl, with two goblets, and a plastron of Spanish\nsteel. Pasques Dieu! there are some fine women over yonder! Mort de ma\nvie! see to that one in the doorway! I will go speak to her. But whom\nhave we here?\"\n\n\"Is there an archer here hight Sam Aylward?\" asked a gaunt man-at-arms,\nclanking up to them across the courtyard.\n\n\"My name, friend,\" quoth the bowman.\n\n\"Then sure I have no need to tell thee mine,\" said the other.\n\n\"By the rood! if it is not Black Simon of Norwich!\" cried Aylward. \"A\nmon coeur, camarade, a mon coeur! Ah, but I am blithe to see thee!\" The\ntwo fell upon each other and hugged like bears.\n\n\"And where from, old blood and bones?\" asked the bowman.\n\n\"I am in service here. Tell me, comrade, is it sooth that we shall have\nanother fling at these Frenchmen? It is so rumored in the guard-room,\nand that Sir Nigel will take the field once more.\"\n\n\"It is like enough, mon gar., as things go.\"\n\n\"Now may the Lord be praised!\" cried the other. \"This very night will I\nset apart a golden ouche to be offered on the shrine of my name-saint. I\nhave pined for this, Aylward, as a young maid pines for her lover.\"\n\n\"Art so set on plunder then? Is the purse so light that there is not\nenough for a rouse? I have a bag at my belt, camarade, and you have but\nto put your fist into it for what you want. It was ever share and share\nbetween us.\"\n\n\"Nay, friend, it is not the Frenchman's gold, but the Frenchman's blood\nthat I would have. I should not rest quiet in the grave, coz, if I had\nnot another turn at them. For with us in France it has ever been fair\nand honest war--a shut fist for the man, but a bended knee for the\nwoman. But how was it at Winchelsea when their galleys came down upon it\nsome few years back? I had an old mother there, lad, who had come down\nthither from the Midlands to be the nearer her son. They found her\nafterwards by her own hearthstone, thrust through by a Frenchman's bill.\nMy second sister, my brother's wife, and her two children, they were but\nash-heaps in the smoking ruins of their house. I will not say that we\nhave not wrought great scath upon France, but women and children have\nbeen safe from us. And so, old friend, my heart is hot within me, and I\nlong to hear the old battle-cry again, and, by God's truth! if Sir\nNigel unfurls his pennon, here is one who will be right glad to feel the\nsaddle-flaps under his knees.\"\n\n\"We have seen good work together, old war-dog,\" quoth Aylward; \"and,\nby my hilt! we may hope to see more ere we die. But we are more like to\nhawk at the Spanish woodcock than at the French heron, though certes\nit is rumored that Du Guesclin with all the best lances of France have\ntaken service under the lions and towers of Castile. But, comrade, it is\nin my mind that there is some small matter of dispute still open between\nus.\"\n\n\"'Fore God, it is sooth!\" cried the other; \"I had forgot it. The\nprovost-marshal and his men tore us apart when last we met.\"\n\n\"On which, friend, we vowed that we should settle the point when next we\ncame together. Hast thy sword, I see, and the moon throws glimmer enough\nfor such old night-birds as we. On guard, mon gar.! I have not heard\nclink of steel this month or more.\"\n\n\"Out from the shadow then,\" said the other, drawing his sword. \"A vow is\na vow, and not lightly to be broken.\"\n\n\"A vow to the saints,\" cried Alleyne, \"is indeed not to be set aside;\nbut this is a devil's vow, and, simple clerk as I am, I am yet the\nmouthpiece of the true church when I say that it were mortal sin to\nfight on such a quarrel. What! shall two grown men carry malice for\nyears, and fly like snarling curs at each other's throats?\"\n\n\"No malice, my young clerk, no malice,\" quoth Black Simon. \"I have not\na bitter drop in my heart for mine old comrade; but the quarrel, as he\nhath told you, is still open and unsettled. Fall on, Aylward!\"\n\n\"Not whilst I can stand between you,\" cried Alleyne, springing before\nthe bowman. \"It is shame and sin to see two Christian Englishmen turn\nswords against each other like the frenzied bloodthirsty paynim.\"\n\n\"And, what is more,\" said Hordle John, suddenly appearing out of the\nbuttery with the huge board upon which the pastry was rolled, \"if either\nraise sword I shall flatten him like a Shrovetide pancake. By the black\nrood! I shall drive him into the earth, like a nail into a door, rather\nthan see you do scath to each other.\"\n\n\"'Fore God, this is a strange way of preaching peace,\" cried Black\nSimon. \"You may find the scath yourself, my lusty friend, if you raise\nyour great cudgel to me. I had as lief have the castle drawbridge drop\nupon my pate.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Aylward,\" said Alleyne earnestly, with his hands outstretched\nto keep the pair asunder, \"what is the cause of quarrel, that we may see\nwhether honorable settlement may not be arrived at?\"\n\nThe bowman looked down at his feet and then up at the moon. \"Parbleu!\"\nhe cried, \"the cause of quarrel? Why, mon petit, it was years ago in\nLimousin, and how can I bear in mind what was the cause of it? Simon\nthere hath it at the end of his tongue.\"\n\n\"Not I, in troth,\" replied the other; \"I have had other things to think\nof. There was some sort of bickering over dice, or wine, or was it a\nwoman, coz?\"\n\n\"Pasques Dieu! but you have nicked it,\" cried Aylward. \"It was indeed\nabout a woman; and the quarrel must go forward, for I am still of the\nsame mind as before.\"\n\n\"What of the woman, then?\" asked Simon. \"May the murrain strike me if I\ncan call to mind aught about her.\"\n\n\"It was La Blanche Rose, maid at the sign of the 'Trois Corbeaux' at\nLimoges. Bless her pretty heart! Why, mon gar., I loved her.\"\n\n\"So did a many,\" quoth Simon. \"I call her to mind now. On the very day\nthat we fought over the little hussy, she went off with Evan ap Price,\na long-legged Welsh dagsman. They have a hostel of their own now,\nsomewhere on the banks of the Garonne, where the landlord drinks so much\nof the liquor that there is little left for the customers.\"\n\n\"So ends our quarrel, then,\" said Aylward, sheathing his sword. \"A Welsh\ndagsman, i' faith! C'etait mauvais gout, camarade, and the more so when\nshe had a jolly archer and a lusty man-at-arms to choose from.\"\n\n\"True, old lad. And it is as well that we can compose our differences\nhonorably, for Sir Nigel had been out at the first clash of steel; and\nhe hath sworn that if there be quarrelling in the garrison he would\nsmite the right hand from the broilers. You know him of old, and that he\nis like to be as good as his word.\"\n\n\"Mort-Dieu! yes. But there are ale, mead, and wine in the buttery, and\nthe steward a merry rogue, who will not haggle over a quart or two.\nBuvons, mon gar., for it is not every day that two old friends come\ntogether.\"\n\nThe old soldiers and Hordle John strode off together in all good\nfellowship. Alleyne had turned to follow them, when he felt a touch upon\nhis shoulder, and found a young page by his side.\n\n\"The Lord Loring commands,\" said the boy, \"that you will follow me to\nthe great chamber, and await him there.\"\n\n\"But my comrades?\"\n\n\"His commands were for you alone.\"\n\nAlleyne followed the messenger to the east end of the courtyard, where a\nbroad flight of steps led up to the doorway of the main hall, the outer\nwall of which is washed by the waters of the Avon. As designed at first,\nno dwelling had been allotted to the lord of the castle and his family\nbut the dark and dismal basement story of the keep. A more civilized or\nmore effeminate generation, however, had refused to be pent up in such\na cellar, and the hall with its neighboring chambers had been added for\ntheir accommodation. Up the broad steps Alleyne went, still following\nhis boyish guide, until at the folding oak doors the latter paused, and\nushered him into the main hall of the castle.\n\nOn entering the room the clerk looked round; but, seeing no one, he\ncontinued to stand, his cap in his hand, examining with the greatest\ninterest a chamber which was so different to any to which he was\naccustomed. The days had gone by when a nobleman's hall was but a\nbarn-like, rush-strewn enclosure, the common lounge and eating-room of\nevery inmate of the castle. The Crusaders had brought back with them\nexperiences of domestic luxuries, of Damascus carpets and rugs of\nAleppo, which made them impatient of the hideous bareness and want of\nprivacy which they found in their ancestral strongholds. Still stronger,\nhowever, had been the influence of the great French war; for, however\nwell matched the nations might be in martial exercises, there could be\nno question but that our neighbors were infinitely superior to us in the\narts of peace. A stream of returning knights, of wounded soldiers,\nand of unransomed French noblemen, had been for a quarter of a century\ncontinually pouring into England, every one of whom exerted an influence\nin the direction of greater domestic refinement, while shiploads of\nFrench furniture from Calais, Rouen, and other plundered towns, had\nsupplied our own artisans with models on which to shape their work.\nHence, in most English castles, and in Castle Twynham among the rest,\nchambers were to be found which would seem to be not wanting either in\nbeauty or in comfort.\n\nIn the great stone fireplace a log fire was spurting and crackling,\nthrowing out a ruddy glare which, with the four bracket-lamps which\nstood at each corner of the room, gave a bright and lightsome air to the\nwhole apartment. Above was a wreath-work of blazonry, extending up to\nthe carved and corniced oaken roof; while on either side stood the high\ncanopied chairs placed for the master of the house and for his most\nhonored guest. The walls were hung all round with most elaborate and\nbrightly colored tapestry, representing the achievements of Sir Bevis\nof Hampton, and behind this convenient screen were stored the tables\ndormant and benches which would be needed for banquet or high festivity.\nThe floor was of polished tiles, with a square of red and black diapered\nFlemish carpet in the centre; and many settees, cushions, folding\nchairs, and carved bancals littered all over it. At the further end was\na long black buffet or dresser, thickly covered with gold cups, silver\nsalvers, and other such valuables. All this Alleyne examined with\ncurious eyes; but most interesting of all to him was a small ebony\ntable at his very side, on which, by the side of a chess-board and the\nscattered chessmen, there lay an open manuscript written in a right\nclerkly hand, and set forth with brave flourishes and devices along the\nmargins. In vain Alleyne bethought him of where he was, and of those\nlaws of good breeding and decorum which should restrain him: those\ncolored capitals and black even lines drew his hand down to them, as\nthe loadstone draws the needle, until, almost before he knew it, he\nwas standing with the romance of Garin de Montglane before his eyes, so\nabsorbed in its contents as to be completely oblivious both of where he\nwas and why he had come there.\n\nHe was brought back to himself, however, by a sudden little ripple of\nquick feminine laughter. Aghast, he dropped the manuscript among the\nchessmen and stared in bewilderment round the room. It was as empty and\nas still as ever. Again he stretched his hand out to the romance, and\nagain came that roguish burst of merriment. He looked up at the ceiling,\nback at the closed door, and round at the stiff folds of motionless\ntapestry. Of a sudden, however, he caught a quick shimmer from the\ncorner of a high-backed bancal in front of him, and, shifting a pace\nor two to the side, saw a white slender hand, which held a mirror of\npolished silver in such a way that the concealed observer could see\nwithout being seen. He stood irresolute, uncertain whether to advance or\nto take no notice; but, even as he hesitated, the mirror was whipped\nin, and a tall and stately young lady swept out from behind the oaken\nscreen, with a dancing light of mischief in her eyes. Alleyne started\nwith astonishment as he recognized the very maiden who had suffered\nfrom his brother's violence in the forest. She no longer wore her gay\nriding-dress, however, but was attired in a long sweeping robe of black\nvelvet of Bruges, with delicate tracery of white lace at neck and at\nwrist, scarce to be seen against her ivory skin. Beautiful as she had\nseemed to him before, the lithe charm of her figure and the proud, free\ngrace of her bearing were enhanced now by the rich simplicity of her\nattire.\n\n\"Ah, you start,\" said she, with the same sidelong look of mischief,\n\"and I cannot marvel at it. Didst not look to see the distressed damosel\nagain. Oh that I were a minstrel, that I might put it into rhyme,\nwith the whole romance--the luckless maid, the wicked socman, and the\nvirtuous clerk! So might our fame have gone down together for all time,\nand you be numbered with Sir Percival or Sir Galahad, or all the other\nrescuers of oppressed ladies.\"\n\n\"What I did,\" said Alleyne, \"was too small a thing for thanks; and yet,\nif I may say it without offence, it was too grave and near a matter\nfor mirth and raillery. I had counted on my brother's love, but God has\nwilled that it should be otherwise. It is a joy to me to see you again,\nlady, and to know that you have reached home in safety, if this be\nindeed your home.\"\n\n\"Yes, in sooth, Castle Twynham is my home, and Sir Nigel Loring my\nfather. I should have told you so this morning, but you said that you\nwere coming thither, so I bethought me that I might hold it back as\na surprise to you. Oh dear, but it was brave to see you!\" she cried,\nbursting out a-laughing once more, and standing with her hand pressed to\nher side, and her half-closed eyes twinkling with amusement. \"You drew\nback and came forward with your eyes upon my book there, like the mouse\nwho sniffs the cheese and yet dreads the trap.\"\n\n\"I take shame,\" said Alleyne, \"that I should have touched it.\"\n\n\"Nay, it warmed my very heart to see it. So glad was I, that I laughed\nfor very pleasure. My fine preacher can himself be tempted then, thought\nI; he is not made of another clay to the rest of us.\"\n\n\"God help me! I am the weakest of the weak,\" groaned Alleyne. \"I pray\nthat I may have more strength.\"\n\n\"And to what end?\" she asked sharply. \"If you are, as I understand, to\nshut yourself forever in your cell within the four walls of an abbey,\nthen of what use would it be were your prayer to be answered?\"\n\n\"The use of my own salvation.\"\n\nShe turned from him with a pretty shrug and wave. \"Is that all?\" she\nsaid. \"Then you are no better than Father Christopher and the rest of\nthem. Your own, your own, ever your own! My father is the king's man,\nand when he rides into the press of fight he is not thinking ever of the\nsaving of his own poor body; he recks little enough if he leave it on\nthe field. Why then should you, who are soldiers of the Spirit, be\never moping or hiding in cell or in cave, with minds full of your own\nconcerns, while the world, which you should be mending, is going on its\nway, and neither sees nor hears you? Were ye all as thoughtless of your\nown souls as the soldier is of his body, ye would be of more avail to\nthe souls of others.\"\n\n\"There is sooth in what you say, lady,\" Alleyne answered; \"and yet I\nscarce can see what you would have the clergy and the church to do.\"\n\n\"I would have them live as others and do men's work in the world,\npreaching by their lives rather than their words. I would have them come\nforth from their lonely places, mix with the borel folks, feel the pains\nand the pleasures, the cares and the rewards, the temptings and the\nstirrings of the common people. Let them toil and swinken, and labor,\nand plough the land, and take wives to themselves----\"\n\n\"Alas! alas!\" cried Alleyne aghast, \"you have surely sucked this poison\nfrom the man Wicliffe, of whom I have heard such evil things.\"\n\n\"Nay, I know him not. I have learned it by looking from my own chamber\nwindow and marking these poor monks of the priory, their weary life,\ntheir profitless round. I have asked myself if the best which can be\ndone with virtue is to shut it within high walls as though it were some\nsavage creature. If the good will lock themselves up, and if the wicked\nwill still wander free, then alas for the world!\"\n\nAlleyne looked at her in astonishment, for her cheek was flushed, her\neyes gleaming, and her whole pose full of eloquence and conviction. Yet\nin an instant she had changed again to her old expression of merriment\nleavened with mischief.\n\n\"Wilt do what I ask?\" said she.\n\n\"What is it, lady?\"\n\n\"Oh, most ungallant clerk! A true knight would never have asked, but\nwould have vowed upon the instant. 'Tis but to bear me out in what I say\nto my father.\"\n\n\"In what?\"\n\n\"In saying, if he ask, that it was south of the Christchurch road that I\nmet you. I shall be shut up with the tire-women else, and have a week\nof spindle and bodkin, when I would fain be galloping Troubadour up\nWilverley Walk, or loosing little Roland at the Vinney Ridge herons.\"\n\n\"I shall not answer him if he ask.\"\n\n\"Not answer! But he will have an answer. Nay, but you must not fail me,\nor it will go ill with me.\"\n\n\"But, lady,\" cried poor Alleyne in great distress, \"how can I say that\nit was to the south of the road when I know well that it was four miles\nto the north.\"\n\n\"You will not say it?\"\n\n\"Surely you will not, too, when you know that it is not so?\"\n\n\"Oh, I weary of your preaching!\" she cried, and swept away with a toss\nof her beautiful head, leaving Alleyne as cast down and ashamed as\nthough he had himself proposed some infamous thing. She was back again\nin an instant, however, in another of her varying moods.\n\n\"Look at that, my friend!\" said she. \"If you had been shut up in abbey\nor in cell this day you could not have taught a wayward maiden to abide\nby the truth. Is it not so? What avail is the shepherd if he leaves his\nsheep.\"\n\n\"A sorry shepherd!\" said Alleyne humbly. \"But here is your noble\nfather.\"\n\n\"And you shall see how worthy a pupil I am. Father, I am much beholden\nto this young clerk, who was of service to me and helped me this very\nmorning in Minstead Woods, four miles to the north of the Christchurch\nroad, where I had no call to be, you having ordered it otherwise.\" All\nthis she reeled off in a loud voice, and then glanced with sidelong,\nquestioning eyes at Alleyne for his approval.\n\nSir Nigel, who had entered the room with a silvery-haired old lady upon\nhis arm, stared aghast at this sudden outburst of candor.\n\n\"Maude, Maude!\" said he, shaking his head, \"it is more hard for me to\ngain obedience from you than from the ten score drunken archers who\nfollowed me to Guienne. Yet, hush! little one, for your fair lady-mother\nwill be here anon, and there is no need that she should know it. We will\nkeep you from the provost-marshal this journey. Away to your chamber,\nsweeting, and keep a blithe face, for she who confesses is shriven. And\nnow, fair mother,\" he continued, when his daughter had gone, \"sit\nyou here by the fire, for your blood runs colder than it did. Alleyne\nEdricson, I would have a word with you, for I would fain that you should\ntake service under me. And here in good time comes my lady, without\nwhose counsel it is not my wont to decide aught of import; but, indeed,\nit was her own thought that you should come.\"\n\n\"For I have formed a good opinion of you, and can see that you are one\nwho may be trusted,\" said the Lady Loring. \"And in good sooth my dear\nlord hath need of such a one by his side, for he recks so little of\nhimself that there should be one there to look to his needs and meet his\nwants. You have seen the cloisters; it were well that you should see the\nworld too, ere you make choice for life between them.\"\n\n\"It was for that very reason that my father willed that I should come\nforth into the world at my twentieth year,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"Then your father was a man of good counsel,\" said she, \"and you cannot\ncarry out his will better than by going on this path, where all that is\nnoble and gallant in England will be your companions.\"\n\n\"You can ride?\" asked Sir Nigel, looking at the youth with puckered\neyes.\n\n\"Yes, I have ridden much at the abbey.\"\n\n\"Yet there is a difference betwixt a friar's hack and a warrior's\ndestrier. You can sing and play?\"\n\n\"On citole, flute and rebeck.\"\n\n\"Good! You can read blazonry?\"\n\n\"Indifferent well.\"\n\n\"Then read this,\" quoth Sir Nigel, pointing upwards to one of the many\nquarterings which adorned the wall over the fireplace.\n\n\"Argent,\" Alleyne answered, \"a fess azure charged with three lozenges\ndividing three mullets sable. Over all, on an escutcheon of the first, a\njambe gules.\"\n\n\"A jambe gules erased,\" said Sir Nigel, shaking his head solemnly. \"Yet\nit is not amiss for a monk-bred man. I trust that you are lowly and\nserviceable?\"\n\n\"I have served all my life, my lord.\"\n\n\"Canst carve too?\"\n\n\"I have carved two days a week for the brethren.\"\n\n\"A model truly! Wilt make a squire of squires. But tell me, I pray,\ncanst curl hair?\"\n\n\"No, my lord, but I could learn.\"\n\n\"It is of import,\" said he, \"for I love to keep my hair well ordered,\nseeing that the weight of my helmet for thirty years hath in some degree\nfrayed it upon the top.\" He pulled off his velvet cap of maintenance as\nhe spoke, and displayed a pate which was as bald as an egg, and shone\nbravely in the firelight. \"You see,\" said he, whisking round, and\nshowing one little strip where a line of scattered hairs, like the last\nsurvivors in some fatal field, still barely held their own against the\nfate which had fallen upon their comrades; \"these locks need some little\noiling and curling, for I doubt not that if you look slantwise at my\nhead, when the light is good, you will yourself perceive that there are\nplaces where the hair is sparse.\"\n\n\"It is for you also to bear the purse,\" said the lady; \"for my sweet\nlord is of so free and gracious a temper that he would give it gayly to\nthe first who asked alms of him. All these things, with some knowledge\nof venerie, and of the management of horse, hawk and hound, with the\ngrace and hardihood and courtesy which are proper to your age, will make\nyou a fit squire for Sir Nigel Loring.\"\n\n\"Alas! lady,\" Alleyne answered, \"I know well the great honor that you\nhave done me in deeming me worthy to wait upon so renowned a knight,\nyet I am so conscious of my own weakness that I scarce dare incur duties\nwhich I might be so ill-fitted to fulfil.\"\n\n\"Modesty and a humble mind,\" said she, \"are the very first and rarest\ngifts in page or squire. Your words prove that you have these, and\nall the rest is but the work of use and time. But there is no call for\nhaste. Rest upon it for the night, and let your orisons ask for guidance\nin the matter. We knew your father well, and would fain help his son,\nthough we have small cause to love your brother the Socman, who is\nforever stirring up strife in the county.\"\n\n\"We can scare hope,\" said Nigel, \"to have all ready for our start before\nthe feast of St. Luke, for there is much to be done in the time. You\nwill have leisure, therefore, if it please you to take service under me,\nin which to learn your devoir. Bertrand, my daughter's page, is hot to\ngo; but in sooth he is over young for such rough work as may be before\nus.\"\n\n\"And I have one favor to crave from you,\" added the lady of the castle,\nas Alleyne turned to leave their presence. \"You have, as I understand,\nmuch learning which you have acquired at Beaulieu.\"\n\n\"Little enough, lady, compared with those who were my teachers.\"\n\n\"Yet enough for my purpose, I doubt not. For I would have you give\nan hour or two a day whilst you are with us in discoursing with my\ndaughter, the Lady Maude; for she is somewhat backward, I fear, and hath\nno love for letters, save for these poor fond romances, which do but\nfill her empty head with dreams of enchanted maidens and of errant\ncavaliers. Father Christopher comes over after nones from the priory,\nbut he is stricken with years and slow of speech, so that she gets small\nprofit from his teaching. I would have you do what you can with her, and\nwith Agatha my young tire-woman, and with Dorothy Pierpont.\"\n\nAnd so Alleyne found himself not only chosen as squire to a knight but\nalso as squire to three damosels, which was even further from the part\nwhich he had thought to play in the world. Yet he could but agree to\ndo what he might, and so went forth from the castle hall with his\nface flushed and his head in a whirl at the thought of the strange and\nperilous paths which his feet were destined to tread.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII. HOW ALLEYNE LEARNED MORE THAN HE COULD TEACH.\n\n\nAnd now there came a time of stir and bustle, of furbishing of arms and\nclang of hammer from all the southland counties. Fast spread the tidings\nfrom thorpe to thorpe and from castle to castle, that the old game was\nafoot once more, and the lions and lilies to be in the field with the\nearly spring. Great news this for that fierce old country, whose trade\nfor a generation had been war, her exports archers and her imports\nprisoners. For six years her sons had chafed under an unwonted peace.\nNow they flew to their arms as to their birthright. The old soldiers of\nCrecy, of Nogent, and of Poictiers were glad to think that they might\nhear the war-trumpet once more, and gladder still were the hot youth who\nhad chafed for years under the martial tales of their sires. To pierce\nthe great mountains of the south, to fight the tamers of the fiery\nMoors, to follow the greatest captain of the age, to find sunny\ncornfields and vineyards, when the marches of Picardy and Normandy were\nas rare and bleak as the Jedburgh forests--here was a golden prospect\nfor a race of warriors. From sea to sea there was stringing of bows in\nthe cottage and clang of steel in the castle.\n\nNor did it take long for every stronghold to pour forth its cavalry, and\nevery hamlet its footmen. Through the late autumn and the early winter\nevery road and country lane resounded with nakir and trumpet, with the\nneigh of the war-horse and the clatter of marching men. From the Wrekin\nin the Welsh marches to the Cotswolds in the west or Butser in the\nsouth, there was no hill-top from which the peasant might not have seen\nthe bright shimmer of arms, the toss and flutter of plume and of pensil.\nFrom bye-path, from woodland clearing, or from winding moor-side track\nthese little rivulets of steel united in the larger roads to form a\nbroader stream, growing ever fuller and larger as it approached the\nnearest or most commodious seaport. And there all day, and day after\nday, there was bustle and crowding and labor, while the great ships\nloaded up, and one after the other spread their white pinions and darted\noff to the open sea, amid the clash of cymbals and rolling of drums and\nlusty shouts of those who went and of those who waited. From Orwell to\nthe Dart there was no port which did not send forth its little fleet,\ngay with streamer and bunting, as for a joyous festival. Thus in the\nseason of the waning days the might of England put forth on to the\nwaters.\n\nIn the ancient and populous county of Hampshire there was no lack of\nleaders or of soldiers for a service which promised either honor or\nprofit. In the north the Saracen's head of the Brocas and the scarlet\nfish of the De Roches were waving over a strong body of archers from\nHolt, Woolmer, and Harewood forests. De Borhunte was up in the east, and\nSir John de Montague in the west. Sir Luke de Ponynges, Sir Thomas West,\nSir Maurice de Bruin, Sir Arthur Lipscombe, Sir Walter Ramsey, and stout\nSir Oliver Buttesthorn were all marching south with levies from Andover,\nArlesford, Odiham and Winchester, while from Sussex came Sir John\nClinton, Sir Thomas Cheyne, and Sir John Fallislee, with a troop of\npicked men-at-arms, making for their port at Southampton. Greatest of\nall the musters, however, was that of Twynham Castle, for the name and\nthe fame of Sir Nigel Loring drew towards him the keenest and boldest\nspirits, all eager to serve under so valiant a leader. Archers from the\nNew Forest and the Forest of Bere, billmen from the pleasant country\nwhich is watered by the Stour, the Avon, and the Itchen, young cavaliers\nfrom the ancient Hampshire houses, all were pushing for Christchurch to\ntake service under the banner of the five scarlet roses.\n\nAnd now, could Sir Nigel have shown the bachelles of land which the laws\nof rank required, he might well have cut his forked pennon into a\nsquare banner, and taken such a following into the field as would have\nsupported the dignity of a banneret. But poverty was heavy upon him, his\nland was scant, his coffers empty, and the very castle which covered him\nthe holding of another. Sore was his heart when he saw rare bowmen and\nwar-hardened spearmen turned away from his gates, for the lack of the\nmoney which might equip and pay them. Yet the letter which Aylward had\nbrought him gave him powers which he was not slow to use. In it Sir\nClaude Latour, the Gascon lieutenant of the White Company, assured him\nthat there remained in his keeping enough to fit out a hundred archers\nand twenty men-at-arms, which, joined to the three hundred veteran\ncompanions already in France, would make a force which any leader might\nbe proud to command. Carefully and sagaciously the veteran knight chose\nout his men from the swarm of volunteers. Many an anxious consultation\nhe held with Black Simon, Sam Aylward, and other of his more experienced\nfollowers, as to who should come and who should stay. By All Saints'\nday, however ere the last leaves had fluttered to earth in the Wilverley\nand Holmesley glades, he had filled up his full numbers, and mustered\nunder his banner as stout a following of Hampshire foresters as ever\ntwanged their war-bows. Twenty men-at-arms, too, well mounted and\nequipped, formed the cavalry of the party, while young Peter Terlake of\nFareham, and Walter Ford of Botley, the martial sons of martial sires,\ncame at their own cost to wait upon Sir Nigel and to share with Alleyne\nEdricson the duties of his squireship.\n\nYet, even after the enrolment, there was much to be done ere the party\ncould proceed upon its way. For armor, swords, and lances, there was no\nneed to take much forethought, for they were to be had both better and\ncheaper in Bordeaux than in England. With the long-bow, however, it was\ndifferent. Yew staves indeed might be got in Spain, but it was well to\ntake enough and to spare with them. Then three spare cords should be\ncarried for each bow, with a great store of arrow-heads, besides the\nbrigandines of chain mail, the wadded steel caps, and the brassarts or\narm-guards, which were the proper equipment of the archer. Above all,\nthe women for miles round were hard at work cutting the white surcoats\nwhich were the badge of the Company, and adorning them with the red lion\nof St. George upon the centre of the breast. When all was completed and\nthe muster called in the castle yard the oldest soldier of the French\nwars was fain to confess that he had never looked upon a better equipped\nor more warlike body of men, from the old knight with his silk jupon,\nsitting his great black war-horse in the front of them, to Hordle John,\nthe giant recruit, who leaned carelessly upon a huge black bow-stave in\nthe rear. Of the six score, fully half had seen service before, while a\nfair sprinkling were men who had followed the wars all their lives, and\nhad a hand in those battles which had made the whole world ring with the\nfame and the wonder of the island infantry.\n\nSix long weeks were taken in these preparations, and it was close on\nMartinmas ere all was ready for a start. Nigh two months had Alleyne\nEdricson been in Castle Twynham--months which were fated to turn the\nwhole current of his life, to divert it from that dark and lonely bourne\ntowards which it tended, and to guide it into freer and more sunlit\nchannels. Already he had learned to bless his father for that wise\nprovision which had made him seek to know the world ere he had ventured\nto renounce it.\n\nFor it was a different place from that which he had pictured--very\ndifferent from that which he had heard described when the master of the\nnovices held forth to his charges upon the ravening wolves who lurked\nfor them beyond the peaceful folds of Beaulieu. There was cruelty in it,\ndoubtless, and lust and sin and sorrow; but were there not virtues to\natone, robust positive virtues which did not shrink from temptation,\nwhich held their own in all the rough blasts of the work-a-day world?\nHow colorless by contrast appeared the sinlessness which came from\ninability to sin, the conquest which was attained by flying from the\nenemy! Monk-bred as he was, Alleyne had native shrewdness and a mind\nwhich was young enough to form new conclusions and to outgrow old\nones. He could not fail to see that the men with whom he was thrown in\ncontact, rough-tongued, fierce and quarrelsome as they were, were yet of\ndeeper nature and of more service in the world than the ox-eyed brethren\nwho rose and ate and slept from year's end to year's end in their own\nnarrow, stagnant circle of existence. Abbot Berghersh was a good man,\nbut how was he better than this kindly knight, who lived as simple a\nlife, held as lofty and inflexible an ideal of duty, and did with all\nhis fearless heart whatever came to his hand to do? In turning from the\nservice of the one to that of the other, Alleyne could not feel that\nhe was lowering his aims in life. True that his gentle and thoughtful\nnature recoiled from the grim work of war, yet in those days of martial\norders and militant brotherhoods there was no gulf fixed betwixt the\npriest and the soldier. The man of God and the man of the sword might\nwithout scandal be united in the same individual. Why then should he,\na mere clerk, have scruples when so fair a chance lay in his way of\ncarrying out the spirit as well as the letter of his father's provision.\nMuch struggle it cost him, anxious spirit-questionings and midnight\nprayings, with many a doubt and a misgiving; but the issue was that ere\nhe had been three days in Castle Twynham he had taken service under Sir\nNigel, and had accepted horse and harness, the same to be paid for out\nof his share of the profits of the expedition. Henceforth for seven\nhours a day he strove in the tilt-yard to qualify himself to be a worthy\nsquire to so worthy a knight. Young, supple and active, with all the\npent energies from years of pure and healthy living, it was not long\nbefore he could manage his horse and his weapon well enough to earn\nan approving nod from critical men-at-arms, or to hold his own against\nTerlake and Ford, his fellow-servitors.\n\nBut were there no other considerations which swayed him from the\ncloisters towards the world? So complex is the human spirit that it can\nitself scarce discern the deep springs which impel it to action. Yet\nto Alleyne had been opened now a side of life of which he had been as\ninnocent as a child, but one which was of such deep import that it could\nnot fail to influence him in choosing his path. A woman, in monkish\nprecepts, had been the embodiment and concentration of what was\ndangerous and evil--a focus whence spread all that was to be dreaded and\navoided. So defiling was their presence that a true Cistercian might\nnot raise his eyes to their face or touch their finger-tips under ban of\nchurch and fear of deadly sin. Yet here, day after day for an hour\nafter nones, and for an hour before vespers, he found himself in close\ncommunion with three maidens, all young, all fair, and all therefore\ndoubly dangerous from the monkish standpoint. Yet he found that in their\npresence he was conscious of a quick sympathy, a pleasant ease, a ready\nresponse to all that was most gentle and best in himself, which filled\nhis soul with a vague and new-found joy.\n\nAnd yet the Lady Maude Loring was no easy pupil to handle. An older and\nmore world-wise man might have been puzzled by her varying moods, her\nsudden prejudices, her quick resentment at all constraint and authority.\nDid a subject interest her, was there space in it for either romance\nor imagination, she would fly through it with her subtle, active mind,\nleaving her two fellow-students and even her teacher toiling behind her.\nOn the other hand, were there dull patience needed with steady toil and\nstrain of memory, no single fact could by any driving be fixed in her\nmind. Alleyne might talk to her of the stories of old gods and heroes,\nof gallant deeds and lofty aims, or he might hold forth upon moon and\nstars, and let his fancy wander over the hidden secrets of the universe,\nand he would have a rapt listener with flushed cheeks and eloquent eyes,\nwho could repeat after him the very words which had fallen from his\nlips. But when it came to almagest and astrolabe, the counting of\nfigures and reckoning of epicycles, away would go her thoughts to horse\nand hound, and a vacant eye and listless face would warn the teacher\nthat he had lost his hold upon his scholar. Then he had but to bring out\nthe old romance book from the priory, with befingered cover of sheepskin\nand gold letters upon a purple ground, to entice her wayward mind back\nto the paths of learning.\n\nAt times, too, when the wild fit was upon her, she would break into\npertness and rebel openly against Alleyne's gentle firmness. Yet he\nwould jog quietly on with his teachings, taking no heed to her mutiny,\nuntil suddenly she would be conquered by his patience, and break into\nself-revilings a hundred times stronger than her fault demanded. It\nchanced however that, on one of these mornings when the evil mood was\nupon her, Agatha the young tire-woman, thinking to please her mistress,\nbegan also to toss her head and make tart rejoinder to the teacher's\nquestions. In an instant the Lady Maude had turned upon her two blazing\neyes and a face which was blanched with anger.\n\n\"You would dare!\" said she. \"You would dare!\" The frightened tire-woman\ntried to excuse herself. \"But my fair lady,\" she stammered, \"what have I\ndone? I have said no more than I heard.\"\n\n\"You would dare!\" repeated the lady in a choking voice. \"You, a\ngraceless baggage, a foolish lack-brain, with no thought above the\nhemming of shifts. And he so kindly and hendy and long-suffering! You\nwould--ha, you may well flee the room!\"\n\nShe had spoken with a rising voice, and a clasping and opening of her\nlong white fingers, so that it was no marvel that ere the speech was\nover the skirts of Agatha were whisking round the door and the click of\nher sobs to be heard dying swiftly away down the corridor.\n\nAlleyne stared open-eyed at this tigress who had sprung so suddenly\nto his rescue. \"There is no need for such anger,\" he said mildly. \"The\nmaid's words have done me no scath. It is you yourself who have erred.\"\n\n\"I know it,\" she cried, \"I am a most wicked woman. But it is bad enough\nthat one should misuse you. Ma foi! I will see that there is not a\nsecond one.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, no one has misused me,\" he answered. \"But the fault lies\nin your hot and bitter words. You have called her a baggage and a\nlack-brain, and I know not what.\"\n\n\"And you are he who taught me to speak the truth,\" she cried. \"Now I\nhave spoken it, and yet I cannot please you. Lack-brain she is, and\nlack-brain I shall call her.\"\n\nSuch was a sample of the sudden janglings which marred the peace of that\nlittle class. As the weeks passed, however, they became fewer and less\nviolent, as Alleyne's firm and constant nature gained sway and influence\nover the Lady Maude. And yet, sooth to say, there were times when he had\nto ask himself whether it was not the Lady Maude who was gaining sway\nand influence over him. If she were changing, so was he. In drawing her\nup from the world, he was day by day being himself dragged down towards\nit. In vain he strove and reasoned with himself as to the madness of\nletting his mind rest upon Sir Nigel's daughter. What was he--a younger\nson, a penniless clerk, a squire unable to pay for his own harness--that\nhe should dare to raise his eyes to the fairest maid in Hampshire? So\nspake reason; but, in spite of all, her voice was ever in his ears and\nher image in his heart. Stronger than reason, stronger than cloister\nteachings, stronger than all that might hold him back, was that old, old\ntyrant who will brook no rival in the kingdom of youth.\n\nAnd yet it was a surprise and a shock to himself to find how deeply\nshe had entered into his life; how completely those vague ambitions and\nyearnings which had filled his spiritual nature centred themselves now\nupon this thing of earth. He had scarce dared to face the change which\nhad come upon him, when a few sudden chance words showed it all up hard\nand clear, like a lightning flash in the darkness.\n\nHe had ridden over to Poole, one November day, with his fellow-squire,\nPeter Terlake, in quest of certain yew-staves from Wat Swathling, the\nDorsetshire armorer. The day for their departure had almost come, and\nthe two youths spurred it over the lonely downs at the top of their\nspeed on their homeward course, for evening had fallen and there was\nmuch to be done. Peter was a hard, wiry, brown faced, country-bred lad\nwho looked on the coming war as the schoolboy looks on his holidays.\nThis day, however, he had been sombre and mute, with scarce a word a\nmile to bestow upon his comrade.\n\n\"Tell me Alleyne Edricson,\" he broke out, suddenly, as they clattered\nalong the winding track which leads over the Bournemouth hills, \"has it\nnot seemed to you that of late the Lady Maude is paler and more silent\nthan is her wont?\"\n\n\"It may be so,\" the other answered shortly.\n\n\"And would rather sit distrait by her oriel than ride gayly to the chase\nas of old. Methinks, Alleyne, it is this learning which you have taught\nher that has taken all the life and sap from her. It is more than she\ncan master, like a heavy spear to a light rider.\"\n\n\"Her lady-mother has so ordered it,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"By our Lady! and withouten disrespect,\" quoth Terlake, \"it is in my\nmind that her lady-mother is more fitted to lead a company to a storming\nthan to have the upbringing of this tender and milk-white maid. Hark ye,\nlad Alleyne, to what I never told man or woman yet. I love the fair Lady\nMaude, and would give the last drop of my heart's blood to serve her.\"\nHe spoke with a gasping voice, and his face flushed crimson in the\nmoonlight.\n\nAlleyne said nothing, but his heart seemed to turn to a lump of ice in\nhis bosom.\n\n\"My father has broad acres,\" the other continued, \"from Fareham Creek to\nthe slope of the Portsdown Hill. There is filling of granges, hewing\nof wood, malting of grain, and herding of sheep as much as heart could\nwish, and I the only son. Sure am I that Sir Nigel would be blithe at\nsuch a match.\"\n\n\"But how of the lady?\" asked Alleyne, with dry lips.\n\n\"Ah, lad, there lies my trouble. It is a toss of the head and a droop of\nthe eyes if I say one word of what is in my mind. 'Twere as easy to woo\nthe snow-dame that we shaped last winter in our castle yard. I did but\nask her yesternight for her green veil, that I might bear it as a token\nor lambrequin upon my helm; but she flashed out at me that she kept it\nfor a better man, and then all in a breath asked pardon for that she had\nspoke so rudely. Yet she would not take back the words either, nor would\nshe grant the veil. Has it seemed to thee, Alleyne, that she loves any\none?\"\n\n\"Nay, I cannot say,\" said Alleyne, with a wild throb of sudden hope in\nhis heart.\n\n\"I have thought so, and yet I cannot name the man. Indeed, save myself,\nand Walter Ford, and you, who are half a clerk, and Father Christopher\nof the Priory, and Bertrand the page, who is there whom she sees?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell,\" quoth Alleyne shortly; and the two squires rode on\nagain, each intent upon his own thoughts.\n\nNext day at morning lesson the teacher observed that his pupil was\nindeed looking pale and jaded, with listless eyes and a weary manner. He\nwas heavy-hearted to note the grievous change in her.\n\n\"Your mistress, I fear, is ill, Agatha,\" he said to the tire-woman, when\nthe Lady Maude had sought her chamber.\n\nThe maid looked aslant at him with laughing eyes. \"It is not an illness\nthat kills,\" quoth she.\n\n\"Pray God not!\" he cried. \"But tell me, Agatha, what it is that ails\nher?\"\n\n\"Methinks that I could lay my hand upon another who is smitten with the\nsame trouble,\" said she, with the same sidelong look. \"Canst not give a\nname to it, and thou so skilled in leech-craft?\"\n\n\"Nay, save that she seems aweary.\"\n\n\"Well, bethink you that it is but three days ere you will all be gone,\nand Castle Twynham be as dull as the Priory. Is there not enough there\nto cloud a lady's brow?\"\n\n\"In sooth, yes,\" he answered; \"I had forgot that she is about to lose\nher father.\"\n\n\"Her father!\" cried the tire-woman, with a little trill of laughter. \"Oh\nsimple, simple!\" And she was off down the passage like arrow from bow,\nwhile Alleyne stood gazing after her, betwixt hope and doubt, scarce\ndaring to put faith in the meaning which seemed to underlie her words.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII. HOW THE WHITE COMPANY SET FORTH TO THE WARS.\n\n\nSt. Luke's day had come and had gone, and it was in the season of\nMartinmas, when the oxen are driven in to the slaughter, that the White\nCompany was ready for its journey. Loud shrieked the brazen bugles from\nkeep and from gateway, and merry was the rattle of the war-drum, as the\nmen gathered in the outer bailey, with torches to light them, for the\nmorn had not yet broken. Alleyne, from the window of the armory, looked\ndown upon the strange scene--the circles of yellow flickering light,\nthe lines of stern and bearded faces, the quick shimmer of arms, and the\nlean heads of the horses. In front stood the bow-men, ten deep, with a\nfringe of under-officers, who paced hither and thither marshalling the\nranks with curt precept or short rebuke. Behind were the little clump\nof steel-clad horsemen, their lances raised, with long pensils drooping\ndown the oaken shafts. So silent and still were they, that they might\nhave been metal-sheathed statues, were it not for the occasional quick,\nimpatient stamp of their chargers, or the rattle of chamfron against\nneck-plates as they tossed and strained. A spear's length in front of\nthem sat the spare and long-limbed figure of Black Simon, the Norwich\nfighting man, his fierce, deep-lined face framed in steel, and the\nsilk guidon marked with the five scarlet roses slanting over his right\nshoulder. All round, in the edge of the circle of the light, stood the\ncastle servants, the soldiers who were to form the garrison, and little\nknots of women, who sobbed in their aprons and called shrilly to their\nname-saints to watch over the Wat, or Will, or Peterkin who had turned\nhis hand to the work of war.\n\nThe young squire was leaning forward, gazing at the stirring and martial\nscene, when he heard a short, quick gasp at his shoulder, and there was\nthe Lady Maude, with her hand to her heart, leaning up against the wall,\nslender and fair, like a half-plucked lily. Her face was turned away\nfrom him, but he could see, by the sharp intake of her breath, that she\nwas weeping bitterly.\n\n\"Alas! alas!\" he cried, all unnerved at the sight, \"why is it that you\nare so sad, lady?\"\n\n\"It is the sight of these brave men,\" she answered; \"and to think how\nmany of them go and how few are like to find their way back. I have seen\nit before, when I was a little maid, in the year of the Prince's great\nbattle. I remember then how they mustered in the bailey, even as they do\nnow, and my lady-mother holding me in her arms at this very window that\nI might see the show.\"\n\n\"Please God, you will see them all back ere another year be out,\" said\nhe.\n\nShe shook her head, looking round at him with flushed cheeks and eyes\nthat sparkled in the lamp-light. \"Oh, but I hate myself for being a\nwoman!\" she cried, with a stamp of her little foot. \"What can I do that\nis good? Here I must bide, and talk and sew and spin, and spin and sew\nand talk. Ever the same dull round, with nothing at the end of it. And\nnow you are going too, who could carry my thoughts out of these gray\nwalls, and raise my mind above tapestry and distaffs. What can I do? I\nam of no more use or value than that broken bowstave.\"\n\n\"You are of such value to me,\" he cried, in a whirl of hot, passionate\nwords, \"that all else has become nought. You are my heart, my life, my\none and only thought. Oh, Maude, I cannot live without you, I cannot\nleave you without a word of love. All is changed to me since I have\nknown you. I am poor and lowly and all unworthy of you; but if great\nlove may weigh down such defects, then mine may do it. Give me but one\nword of hope to take to the wars with me--but one. Ah, you shrink, you\nshudder! My wild words have frightened you.\"\n\nTwice she opened her lips, and twice no sound came from them. At last\nshe spoke in a hard and measured voice, as one who dare not trust\nherself to speak too freely.\n\n\"This is over sudden,\" she said; \"it is not so long since the world was\nnothing to you. You have changed once; perchance you may change again.\"\n\n\"Cruel!\" he cried, \"who hath changed me?\"\n\n\"And then your brother,\" she continued with a little laugh, disregarding\nhis question. \"Methinks this hath become a family custom amongst the\nEdricsons. Nay, I am sorry; I did not mean a jibe. But, indeed, Alleyne,\nthis hath come suddenly upon me, and I scarce know what to say.\"\n\n\"Say some word of hope, however distant--some kind word that I may\ncherish in my heart.\"\n\n\"Nay, Alleyne, it were a cruel kindness, and you have been too good and\ntrue a friend to me that I should use you despitefully. There cannot be\na closer link between us. It is madness to think of it. Were there no\nother reasons, it is enough that my father and your brother would both\ncry out against it.\"\n\n\"My brother, what has he to do with it? And your father----\"\n\n\"Come, Alleyne, was it not you who would have me act fairly to all men,\nand, certes, to my father amongst them?\"\n\n\"You say truly,\" he cried, \"you say truly. But you do not reject me,\nMaude? You give me some ray of hope? I do not ask pledge or promise. Say\nonly that I am not hateful to you--that on some happier day I may hear\nkinder words from you.\"\n\nHer eyes softened upon him, and a kind answer was on her lips, when a\nhoarse shout, with the clatter of arms and stamping of steeds, rose up\nfrom the bailey below. At the sound her face set her eyes sparkled, and\nshe stood with flushed cheek and head thrown back--a woman's body, with\na soul of fire.\n\n\"My father hath gone down,\" she cried. \"Your place is by his side. Nay,\nlook not at me, Alleyne. It is no time for dallying. Win my father's\nlove, and all may follow. It is when the brave soldier hath done his\ndevoir that he hopes for his reward. Farewell, and may God be with you!\"\nShe held out her white, slim hand to him, but as he bent his lips over\nit she whisked away and was gone, leaving in his outstretched hand the\nvery green veil for which poor Peter Terlake had craved in vain. Again\nthe hoarse cheering burst out from below, and he heard the clang of the\nrising portcullis. Pressing the veil to his lips, he thrust it into the\nbosom of his tunic, and rushed as fast as feet could bear him to arm\nhimself and join the muster.\n\nThe raw morning had broken ere the hot spiced ale had been served round\nand the last farewell spoken. A cold wind blew up from the sea and\nragged clouds drifted swiftly across the sky.\n\nThe Christchurch townsfolk stood huddled about the Bridge of Avon, the\nwomen pulling tight their shawls and the men swathing themselves in\ntheir gaberdines, while down the winding path from the castle came the\nvan of the little army, their feet clanging on the hard, frozen road.\nFirst came Black Simon with his banner, bestriding a lean and powerful\ndapple-gray charger, as hard and wiry and warwise as himself. After him,\nriding three abreast, were nine men-at-arms, all picked soldiers, who\nhad followed the French wars before, and knew the marches of Picardy as\nthey knew the downs of their native Hampshire. They were armed to the\nteeth with lance, sword, and mace, with square shields notched at the\nupper right-hand corner to serve as a spear-rest. For defence each man\nwore a coat of interlaced leathern thongs, strengthened at the shoulder,\nelbow, and upper arm with slips of steel. Greaves and knee-pieces were\nalso of leather backed by steel, and their gauntlets and shoes were of\niron plates, craftily jointed. So, with jingle of arms and clatter of\nhoofs, they rode across the Bridge of Avon, while the burghers shouted\nlustily for the flag of the five roses and its gallant guard.\n\nClose at the heels of the horses came two-score archers bearded and\nburly, their round targets on their backs and their long yellow bows,\nthe most deadly weapon that the wit of man had yet devised, thrusting\nforth from behind their shoulders. From each man's girdle hung sword or\naxe, according to his humor, and over the right hip there jutted out the\nleathern quiver with its bristle of goose, pigeon, and peacock feathers.\nBehind the bowmen strode two trumpeters blowing upon nakirs, and two\ndrummers in parti-colored clothes. After them came twenty-seven sumpter\nhorses carrying tent-poles, cloth, spare arms, spurs, wedges, cooking\nkettles, horse-shoes, bags of nails and the hundred other things which\nexperience had shown to be needful in a harried and hostile country. A\nwhite mule with red trappings, led by a varlet, carried Sir Nigel's own\nnapery and table comforts. Then came two-score more archers, ten more\nmen-at-arms, and finally a rear guard of twenty bowmen, with big John\ntowering in the front rank and the veteran Aylward marching by the side,\nhis battered harness and faded surcoat in strange contrast with the\nsnow-white jupons and shining brigandines of his companions. A quick\ncross-fire of greetings and questions and rough West Saxon jests flew\nfrom rank to rank, or were bandied about betwixt the marching archers\nand the gazing crowd.\n\n\"Hola, Gaffer Higginson!\" cried Aylward, as he spied the portly figure\nof the village innkeeper. \"No more of thy nut-brown, mon gar. We leave\nit behind us.\"\n\n\"By St. Paul, no!\" cried the other. \"You take it with you. Devil a drop\nhave you left in the great kilderkin. It was time for you to go.\"\n\n\"If your cask is leer, I warrant your purse is full, gaffer,\" shouted\nHordle John. \"See that you lay in good store of the best for our\nhome-coming.\"\n\n\"See that you keep your throat whole for the drinking of it archer,\"\ncried a voice, and the crowd laughed at the rough pleasantry.\n\n\"If you will warrant the beer, I will warrant the throat,\" said John\ncomposedly.\n\n\"Close up the ranks!\" cried Aylward. \"En avant, mes enfants! Ah, by my\nfinger bones, there is my sweet Mary from the Priory Mill! Ma foi, but\nshe is beautiful! Adieu, Mary ma cherie! Mon coeur est toujours a\ntoi. Brace your belt, Watkins, man, and swing your shoulders as a free\ncompanion should. By my hilt! your jerkins will be as dirty as mine ere\nyou clap eyes on Hengistbury Head again.\"\n\nThe Company had marched to the turn of the road ere Sir Nigel Loring\nrode out from the gateway, mounted on Pommers, his great black\nwar-horse, whose ponderous footfall on the wooden drawbridge echoed\nloudly from the gloomy arch which spanned it. Sir Nigel was still in his\nvelvet dress of peace, with flat velvet cap of maintenance, and curling\nostrich feather clasped in a golden brooch. To his three squires riding\nbehind him it looked as though he bore the bird's egg as well as its\nfeather, for the back of his bald pate shone like a globe of ivory. He\nbore no arms save the long and heavy sword which hung at his saddle-bow;\nbut Terlake carried in front of him the high wivern-crested bassinet,\nFord the heavy ash spear with swallow-tail pennon, while Alleyne was\nentrusted with the emblazoned shield. The Lady Loring rode her palfrey\nat her lord's bridle-arm, for she would see him as far as the edge\nof the forest, and ever and anon she turned her hard-lined face\nup wistfully to him and ran a questioning eye over his apparel and\nappointments.\n\n\"I trust that there is nothing forgot,\" she said, beckoning to Alleyne\nto ride on her further side. \"I trust him to you, Edricson. Hosen,\nshirts, cyclas, and under-jupons are in the brown basket on the left\nside of the mule. His wine he takes hot when the nights are cold,\nmalvoisie or vernage, with as much spice as would cover the thumb-nail.\nSee that he hath a change if he come back hot from the tilting. There is\ngoose-grease in a box, if the old scars ache at the turn of the weather.\nLet his blankets be dry and----\"\n\n\"Nay, my heart's life,\" the little knight interrupted, \"trouble not now\nabout such matters. Why so pale and wan, Edricson? Is it not enow\nto make a man's heart dance to see this noble Company, such valiant\nmen-at-arms, such lusty archers? By St. Paul! I would be ill to please\nif I were not blithe to see the red roses flying at the head of so noble\na following!\"\n\n\"The purse I have already given you, Edricson,\" continued the lady.\n\"There are in it twenty-three marks, one noble, three shillings and\nfourpence, which is a great treasure for one man to carry. And I pray\nyou to bear in mind, Edricson, that he hath two pair of shoes, those of\nred leather for common use, and the others with golden toe-chains,\nwhich he may wear should he chance to drink wine with the Prince or with\nChandos.\"\n\n\"My sweet bird,\" said Sir Nigel, \"I am right loth to part from you,\nbut we are now at the fringe of the forest, and it is not right that I\nshould take the chatelaine too far from her trust.\"\n\n\"But oh, my dear lord,\" she cried with a trembling lip, \"let me bide\nwith you for one furlong further--or one and a half perhaps. You may\nspare me this out of the weary miles that you will journey along.\"\n\n\"Come, then, my heart's comfort,\" he answered. \"But I must crave a gage\nfrom thee. It is my custom, dearling, and hath been since I have\nfirst known thee, to proclaim by herald in such camps, townships, or\nfortalices as I may chance to visit, that my lady-love, being beyond\ncompare the fairest and sweetest in Christendom, I should deem it great\nhonor and kindly condescension if any cavalier would run three courses\nagainst me with sharpened lances, should he chance to have a lady whose\nclaim he was willing to advance. I pray you then my fair dove, that you\nwill vouchsafe to me one of those doeskin gloves, that I may wear it as\nthe badge of her whose servant I shall ever be.\"\n\n\"Alack and alas for the fairest and sweetest!\" she cried. \"Fair and\nsweet I would fain be for your dear sake, my lord, but old I am and\nugly, and the knights would laugh should you lay lance in rest in such a\ncause.\"\n\n\"Edricson,\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"you have young eyes, and mine are somewhat\nbedimmed. Should you chance to see a knight laugh, or smile, or even,\nlook you, arch his brows, or purse his mouth, or in any way show\nsurprise that I should uphold the Lady Mary, you will take particular\nnote of his name, his coat-armor, and his lodging. Your glove, my life's\ndesire!\"\n\nThe Lady Mary Loring slipped her hand from her yellow leather gauntlet,\nand he, lifting it with dainty reverence, bound it to the front of his\nvelvet cap.\n\n\"It is with mine other guardian angels,\" quoth he, pointing at the\nsaints' medals which hung beside it. \"And now, my dearest, you have come\nfar enow. May the Virgin guard and prosper thee! One kiss!\" He bent down\nfrom his saddle, and then, striking spurs into his horse's sides, he\ngalloped at top speed after his men, with his three squires at his\nheels. Half a mile further, where the road topped a hill, they looked\nback, and the Lady Mary on her white palfrey was still where they had\nleft her. A moment later they were on the downward slope, and she had\nvanished from their view.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV. HOW SIR NIGEL SOUGHT FOR A WAYSIDE VENTURE.\n\n\nFor a time Sir Nigel was very moody and downcast, with bent brows and\neyes upon the pommel of his saddle. Edricson and Terlake rode behind him\nin little better case, while Ford, a careless and light-hearted youth,\ngrinned at the melancholy of his companions, and flourished his lord's\nheavy spear, making a point to right and a point to left, as though\nhe were a paladin contending against a host of assailants. Sir Nigel\nhappened, however, to turn himself in his saddle--Ford instantly became\nas stiff and as rigid as though he had been struck with a palsy. The\nfour rode alone, for the archers had passed a curve in the road, though\nAlleyne could still hear the heavy clump, clump of their marching, or\ncatch a glimpse of the sparkle of steel through the tangle of leafless\nbranches.\n\n\"Ride by my side, friends, I entreat of you,\" said the knight, reining\nin his steed that they might come abreast of him. \"For, since it hath\npleased you to follow me to the wars, it were well that you should know\nhow you may best serve me. I doubt not, Terlake, that you will show\nyourself a worthy son of a valiant father; and you, Ford, of yours; and\nyou, Edricson, that you are mindful of the old-time house from which\nall men know that you are sprung. And first I would have you bear\nvery steadfastly in mind that our setting forth is by no means for the\npurpose of gaining spoil or exacting ransom, though it may well happen\nthat such may come to us also. We go to France, and from thence I trust\nto Spain, in humble search of a field in which we may win advancement\nand perchance some small share of glory. For this purpose I would have\nyou know that it is not my wont to let any occasion pass where it is in\nany way possible that honor may be gained. I would have you bear this\nin mind, and give great heed to it that you may bring me word of all\ncartels, challenges, wrongs, tyrannies, infamies, and wronging of\ndamsels. Nor is any occasion too small to take note of, for I have\nknown such trifles as the dropping of a gauntlet, or the flicking of\na breadcrumb, when well and properly followed up, lead to a most noble\nspear-running. But, Edricson, do I not see a cavalier who rides down\nyonder road amongst the nether shaw? It would be well, perchance, that\nyou should give him greeting from me. And, should he be of gentle blood\nit may be that he would care to exchange thrusts with me.\"\n\n\"Why, my lord,\" quoth Ford, standing in his stirrups and shading his\neyes, \"it is old Hob Davidson, the fat miller of Milton!\"\n\n\"Ah, so it is, indeed,\" said Sir Nigel, puckering his cheeks; \"but\nwayside ventures are not to be scorned, for I have seen no finer\npassages than are to be had from such chance meetings, when cavaliers\nare willing to advance themselves. I can well remember that two leagues\nfrom the town of Rheims I met a very valiant and courteous cavalier of\nFrance, with whom I had gentle and most honorable contention for upwards\nof an hour. It hath ever grieved me that I had not his name, for he\nsmote upon me with a mace and went upon his way ere I was in condition\nto have much speech with him; but his arms were an allurion in chief\nabove a fess azure. I was also on such an occasion thrust through the\nshoulder by Lyon de Montcourt, whom I met on the high road betwixt\nLibourne and Bordeaux. I met him but the once, but I have never seen\na man for whom I bear a greater love and esteem. And so also with the\nsquire Le Bourg Capillet, who would have been a very valiant captain had\nhe lived.\"\n\n\"He is dead then?\" asked Alleyne Edricson.\n\n\"Alas! it was my ill fate to slay him in a bickering which broke out in\na field near the township of Tarbes. I cannot call to mind how the\nthing came about, for it was in the year of the Prince's ride through\nLanguedoc, when there was much fine skirmishing to be had at barriers.\nBy St. Paul! I do not think that any honorable cavalier could ask for\nbetter chance of advancement than might be had by spurring forth before\nthe army and riding to the gateways of Narbonne, or Bergerac or Mont\nGiscar, where some courteous gentleman would ever be at wait to do\nwhat he might to meet your wish or ease you of your vow. Such a one at\nVentadour ran three courses with me betwixt daybreak and sunrise, to the\ngreat exaltation of his lady.\"\n\n\"And did you slay him also, my lord?\" asked Ford with reverence.\n\n\"I could never learn, for he was carried within the barrier, and as I\nhad chanced to break the bone of my leg it was a great unease for me\nto ride or even to stand. Yet, by the goodness of heaven and the pious\nintercession of the valiant St. George, I was able to sit my charger\nin the ruffle of Poictiers, which was no very long time afterwards. But\nwhat have we here? A very fair and courtly maiden, or I mistake.\"\n\nIt was indeed a tall and buxom country lass, with a basket of\nspinach-leaves upon her head, and a great slab of bacon tucked under one\narm. She bobbed a frightened curtsey as Sir Nigel swept his velvet hat\nfrom his head and reined up his great charger.\n\n\"God be with thee, fair maiden!\" said he.\n\n\"God guard thee, my lord!\" she answered, speaking in the broadest West\nSaxon speech, and balancing herself first on one foot and then on the\nother in her bashfulness.\n\n\"Fear not, my fair damsel,\" said Sir Nigel, \"but tell me if perchance\na poor and most unworthy knight can in any wise be of service to you.\nShould it chance that you have been used despitefully, it may be that I\nmay obtain justice for you.\"\n\n\"Lawk no, kind sir,\" she answered, clutching her bacon the tighter, as\nthough some design upon it might be hid under this knightly offer. \"I\nbe the milking wench o' fairmer Arnold, and he be as kind a maister as\nheart could wish.\"\n\n\"It is well,\" said he, and with a shake of the bridle rode on down the\nwoodland path. \"I would have you bear in mind,\" he continued to his\nsquires, \"that gentle courtesy is not, as is the base use of so many\nfalse knights, to be shown only to maidens of high degree, for there\nis no woman so humble that a true knight may not listen to her tale of\nwrong. But here comes a cavalier who is indeed in haste. Perchance it\nwould be well that we should ask him whither he rides, for it may be\nthat he is one who desires to advance himself in chivalry.\"\n\nThe bleak, hard, wind-swept road dipped down in front of them into a\nlittle valley, and then, writhing up the heathy slope upon the other\nside, lost itself among the gaunt pine-trees. Far away between the black\nlines of trunks the quick glitter of steel marked where the Company\npursued its way. To the north stretched the tree country, but to the\nsouth, between two swelling downs, a glimpse might be caught of the cold\ngray shimmer of the sea, with the white fleck of a galley sail upon the\ndistant sky-line. Just in front of the travellers a horseman was urging\nhis steed up the slope, driving it on with whip and spur as one who\nrides for a set purpose. As he clattered up, Alleyne could see that the\nroan horse was gray with dust and flecked with foam, as though it had\nleft many a mile behind it. The rider was a stern-faced man, hard of\nmouth and dry of eye, with a heavy sword clanking at his side, and a\nstiff white bundle swathed in linen balanced across the pommel of his\nsaddle.\n\n\"The king's messenger,\" he bawled as he came up to them. \"The messenger\nof the king. Clear the causeway for the king's own man.\"\n\n\"Not so loudly, friend,\" quoth the little knight, reining his horse half\nround to bar the path. \"I have myself been the king's man for thirty\nyears or more, but I have not been wont to halloo about it on a peaceful\nhighway.\"\n\n\"I ride in his service,\" cried the other, \"and I carry that which\nbelongs to him. You bar my path at your peril.\"\n\n\"Yet I have known the king's enemies claim to ride in his same,\" said\nSir Nigel. \"The foul fiend may lurk beneath a garment of light. We must\nhave some sign or warrant of your mission.\"\n\n\"Then must I hew a passage,\" cried the stranger, with his shoulder\nbraced round and his hand upon his hilt. \"I am not to be stopped on the\nking's service by every gadabout.\"\n\n\"Should you be a gentleman of quarterings and coat-armor,\" lisped Sir\nNigel, \"I shall be very blithe to go further into the matter with you.\nIf not, I have three very worthy squires, any one of whom would take the\nthing upon himself, and debate it with you in a very honorable way.\"\n\nThe man scowled from one to the other, and his hand stole away from his\nsword.\n\n\"You ask me for a sign,\" he said. \"Here is a sign for you, since you\nmust have one.\" As he spoke he whirled the covering from the object\nin front of him and showed to their horror that it was a newly-severed\nhuman leg. \"By God's tooth!\" he continued, with a brutal laugh, \"you ask\nme if I am a man of quarterings, and it is even so, for I am officer\nto the verderer's court at Lyndhurst. This thievish leg is to hang at\nMilton, and the other is already at Brockenhurst, as a sign to all men\nof what comes of being over-fond of venison pasty.\"\n\n\"Faugh!\" cried Sir Nigel. \"Pass on the other side of the road, fellow,\nand let us have the wind of you. We shall trot our horses, my friends,\nacross this pleasant valley, for, by Our Lady! a breath of God's fresh\nair is right welcome after such a sight.\"\n\n\"We hoped to snare a falcon,\" said he presently, \"but we netted a\ncarrion-crow. Ma foi! but there are men whose hearts are tougher than a\nboar's hide. For me, I have played the old game of war since ever I had\nhair on my chin, and I have seen ten thousand brave men in one day with\ntheir faces to the sky, but I swear by Him who made me that I cannot\nabide the work of the butcher.\"\n\n\"And yet, my fair lord,\" said Edricson, \"there has, from what I hear,\nbeen much of such devil's work in France.\"\n\n\"Too much, too much,\" he answered. \"But I have ever observed that the\nforemost in the field are they who would scorn to mishandle a prisoner.\nBy St. Paul! it is not they who carry the breach who are wont to sack\nthe town, but the laggard knaves who come crowding in when a way has\nbeen cleared for them. But what is this among the trees?\"\n\n\"It is a shrine of Our Lady,\" said Terlake, \"and a blind beggar who\nlives by the alms of those who worship there.\"\n\n\"A shrine!\" cried the knight. \"Then let us put up an orison.\" Pulling\noff his cap, and clasping his hands, he chanted in a shrill voice:\n\"Benedictus dominus Deus meus, qui docet manus meas ad proelium,\net digitos meos ad bellum.\" A strange figure he seemed to his three\nsquires, perched on his huge horse, with his eyes upturned and the\nwintry sun shimmering upon his bald head. \"It is a noble prayer,\" he\nremarked, putting on his hat again, \"and it was taught to me by the\nnoble Chandos himself. But how fares it with you, father? Methinks that\nI should have ruth upon you, seeing that I am myself like one who looks\nthrough a horn window while his neighbors have the clear crystal. Yet,\nby St. Paul! there is a long stride between the man who hath a horn\ncasement and him who is walled in on every hand.\"\n\n\"Alas! fair sir,\" cried the blind old man, \"I have not seen the blessed\nblue of heaven this two-score years, since a levin flash burned the\nsight out of my head.\"\n\n\"You have been blind to much that is goodly and fair,\" quoth Sir Nigel,\n\"but you have also been spared much that is sorry and foul. This very\nhour our eyes have been shocked with that which would have left you\nunmoved. But, by St. Paul! we must on, or our Company will think that\nthey have lost their captain somewhat early in the venture. Throw the\nman my purse, Edricson, and let us go.\"\n\nAlleyne, lingering behind, bethought him of the Lady Loring's counsel,\nand reduced the noble gift which the knight had so freely bestowed to a\nsingle penny, which the beggar with many mumbled blessings thrust away\ninto his wallet. Then, spurring his steed, the young squire rode at the\ntop of his speed after his companions, and overtook them just at the\nspot where the trees fringe off into the moor and the straggling hamlet\nof Hordle lies scattered on either side of the winding and deeply-rutted\ntrack. The Company was already well-nigh through the village; but, as\nthe knight and his squires closed up upon them, they heard the clamor of\na strident voice, followed by a roar of deep-chested laughter from\nthe ranks of the archers. Another minute brought them up with the\nrear-guard, where every man marched with his beard on his shoulder and a\nface which was agrin with merriment. By the side of the column walked\na huge red-headed bowman, with his hands thrown out in argument and\nexpostulation, while close at his heels followed a little wrinkled\nwoman who poured forth a shrill volley of abuse, varied by an occasional\nthwack from her stick, given with all the force of her body, though she\nmight have been beating one of the forest trees for all the effect that\nshe seemed likely to produce.\n\n\"I trust, Aylward,\" said Sir Nigel gravely, as he rode up, \"that this\ndoth not mean that any violence hath been offered to women. If such a\nthing happened, I tell you that the man shall hang, though he were the\nbest archer that ever wore brassart.\"\n\n\"Nay, my fair lord,\" Aylward answered with a grin, \"it is violence which\nis offered to a man. He comes from Hordle, and this is his mother who\nhath come forth to welcome him.\"\n\n\"You rammucky lurden,\" she was howling, with a blow between each catch\nof her breath, \"you shammocking, yaping, over-long good-for-nought. I\nwill teach thee! I will baste thee! Aye, by my faith!\"\n\n\"Whist, mother,\" said John, looking back at her from the tail of his\neye, \"I go to France as an archer to give blows and to take them.\"\n\n\"To France, quotha?\" cried the old dame. \"Bide here with me, and I shall\nwarrant you more blows than you are like to get in France. If blows be\nwhat you seek, you need not go further than Hordle.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! the good dame speaks truth,\" said Aylward. \"It seems to be\nthe very home of them.\"\n\n\"What have you to say, you clean-shaved galley-beggar?\" cried the fiery\ndame, turning upon the archer. \"Can I not speak with my own son but you\nmust let your tongue clack? A soldier, quotha, and never a hair on\nhis face. I have seen a better soldier with pap for food and swaddling\nclothes for harness.\"\n\n\"Stand to it, Aylward,\" cried the archers, amid a fresh burst of\nlaughter.\n\n\"Do not thwart her, comrade,\" said big John. \"She hath a proper spirit\nfor her years and cannot abide to be thwarted. It is kindly and homely\nto me to hear her voice and to feel that she is behind me. But I must\nleave you now, mother, for the way is over-rough for your feet; but I\nwill bring you back a silken gown, if there be one in France or Spain,\nand I will bring Jinny a silver penny; so good-bye to you, and God have\nyou in His keeping!\" Whipping up the little woman, he lifted her lightly\nto his lips, and then, taking his place in the ranks again, marched on\nwith the laughing Company.\n\n\"That was ever his way,\" she cried, appealing to Sir Nigel, who reined\nup his horse and listened with the greatest courtesy. \"He would jog on\nhis own road for all that I could do to change him. First he must be a\nmonk forsooth, and all because a wench was wise enough to turn her back\non him. Then he joins a rascally crew and must needs trapse off to the\nwars, and me with no one to bait the fire if I be out, or tend the cow\nif I be home. Yet I have been a good mother to him. Three hazel switches\na day have I broke across his shoulders, and he takes no more notice\nthan you have seen him to-day.\"\n\n\"Doubt not that he will come back to you both safe and prosperous, my\nfair dame,\" quoth Sir Nigel. \"Meanwhile it grieves me that as I have\nalready given my purse to a beggar up the road I----\"\n\n\"Nay, my lord,\" said Alleyne, \"I still have some moneys remaining.\"\n\n\"Then I pray you to give them to this very worthy woman.\" He cantered\non as he spoke, while Alleyne, having dispensed two more pence, left\nthe old dame standing by the furthest cottage of Hordle, with her shrill\nvoice raised in blessings instead of revilings.\n\nThere were two cross-roads before they reached the Lymington Ford, and\nat each of then Sir Nigel pulled up his horse, and waited with many a\ncurvet and gambade, craning his neck this way and that to see if fortune\nwould send him a venture. Crossroads had, as he explained, been rare\nplaces for knightly spear-runnings, and in his youth it was no uncommon\nthing for a cavalier to abide for weeks at such a point, holding gentle\ndebate with all comers, to his own advancement and the great honor of\nhis lady. The times were changed, however, and the forest tracks wound\naway from them deserted and silent, with no trample of war-horse or\nclang of armor which might herald the approach of an adversary--so that\nSir Nigel rode on his way disconsolate. At the Lymington River they\nsplashed through the ford, and lay in the meadows on the further side to\neat the bread and salt meat which they carried upon the sumpter horses.\nThen, ere the sun was on the slope of the heavens, they had deftly\ntrussed up again, and were swinging merrily upon their way, two hundred\nfeet moving like two.\n\nThere is a third cross-road where the track from Boldre runs down to the\nold fishing village of Pitt's Deep. Down this, as they came abreast of\nit, there walked two men, the one a pace or two behind the other. The\ncavaliers could not but pull up their horses to look at them, for a\nstranger pair were never seen journeying together. The first was a\nmisshapen, squalid man with cruel, cunning eyes and a shock of tangled\nred hair, bearing in his hands a small unpainted cross, which he held\nhigh so that all men might see it. He seemed to be in the last extremity\nof fright, with a face the color of clay and his limbs all ashake as one\nwho hath an ague. Behind him, with his toe ever rasping upon the other's\nheels, there walked a very stern, black-bearded man with a hard eye and\na set mouth. He bore over his shoulder a great knotted stick with three\njagged nails stuck in the head of it, and from time to time he whirled\nit up in the air with a quivering arm, as though he could scarce hold\nback from dashing his companion's brains out. So in silence they walked\nunder the spread of the branches on the grass-grown path from Boldre.\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" quoth the knight, \"but this is a passing strange sight,\nand perchance some very perilous and honorable venture may arise from\nit. I pray you, Edricson, to ride up to them and to ask them the cause\nof it.\"\n\nThere was no need, however, for him to move, for the twain came swiftly\ntowards them until they were within a spear's length, when the man\nwith the cross sat himself down sullenly upon a tussock of grass by the\nwayside, while the other stood beside him with his great cudgel still\nhanging over his head. So intent was he that he raised his eyes neither\nto knight nor squires, but kept them ever fixed with a savage glare upon\nhis comrade.\n\n\"I pray you, friend,\" said Sir Nigel, \"to tell us truthfully who you\nare, and why you follow this man with such bitter enmity?\"\n\n\"So long as I am within the pale of the king's law,\" the stranger\nanswered, \"I cannot see why I should render account to every passing\nwayfarer.\"\n\n\"You are no very shrewd reasoner, fellow,\" quoth the knight; \"for if\nit be within the law for you to threaten him with your club, then it is\nalso lawful for me to threaten you with my sword.\"\n\nThe man with the cross was down in an instant on his knees upon the\nground, with hands clasped above him and his face shining with hope.\n\"For dear Christ's sake, my fair lord,\" he cried in a crackling voice,\n\"I have at my belt a bag with a hundred rose nobles, and I will give it\nto you freely if you will but pass your sword through this man's body.\"\n\n\"How, you foul knave?\" exclaimed Sir Nigel hotly. \"Do you think that\na cavalier's arm is to be bought like a packman's ware. By St. Paul! I\nhave little doubt that this fellow hath some very good cause to hold you\nin hatred.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my fair sir, you speak sooth,\" quoth he with the club, while\nthe other seated himself once more by the wayside. \"For this man is\nPeter Peterson, a very noted rieve, draw-latch, and murtherer, who has\nwrought much evil for many years in the parts about Winchester. It was\nbut the other day, upon the feasts of the blessed Simon and Jude, that\nhe slew my younger brother William in Bere Forest--for which, by the\nblack thorn of Glastonbury! I shall have his heart's blood, though I\nwalk behind him to the further end of earth.\"\n\n\"But if this be indeed so,\" asked Sir Nigel, \"why is it that you have\ncome with him so far through the forest?\"\n\n\"Because I am an honest Englishman, and will take no more than the law\nallows. For when the deed was done this foul and base wretch fled to\nsanctuary at St. Cross, and I, as you may think, after him with all\nthe posse. The prior, however, hath so ordered that while he holds this\ncross no man may lay hand upon him without the ban of church, which\nheaven forfend from me or mine. Yet, if for an instant he lay the cross\naside, or if he fail to journey to Pitt's Deep, where it is ordered that\nhe shall take ship to outland parts, or if he take not the first ship,\nor if until the ship be ready he walk not every day into the sea as far\nas his loins, then he becomes outlaw, and I shall forthwith dash out his\nbrains.\"\n\nAt this the man on the ground snarled up at him like a rat, while the\nother clenched his teeth, and shook his club, and looked down at him\nwith murder in his eyes. Knight and squire gazed from rogue to avenger,\nbut as it was a matter which none could mend they tarried no longer, but\nrode upon their way. Alleyne, looking back, saw that the murderer had\ndrawn bread and cheese from his scrip, and was silently munching it,\nwith the protecting cross still hugged to his breast, while the other,\nblack and grim, stood in the sunlit road and threw his dark shadow\nathwart him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV. HOW THE YELLOW COG SAILED FORTH FROM LEPE.\n\n\nThat night the Company slept at St. Leonard's, in the great monastic\nbarns and spicarium--ground well known both to Alleyne and to John, for\nthey were almost within sight of the Abbey of Beaulieu. A strange thrill\nit gave to the young squire to see the well-remembered white dress once\nmore, and to hear the measured tolling of the deep vespers bell.\nAt early dawn they passed across the broad, sluggish, reed-girt\nstream--men, horses, and baggage in the flat ferry barges--and so\njourneyed on through the fresh morning air past Exbury to Lepe.\nTopping the heathy down, they came of a sudden full in sight of the old\nsea-port--a cluster of houses, a trail of blue smoke, and a bristle of\nmasts. To right and left the long blue curve of the Solent lapped in a\nfringe of foam upon the yellow beach. Some way out from the town a line\nof pessoners, creyers, and other small craft were rolling lazily on the\ngentle swell. Further out still lay a great merchant-ship, high ended,\ndeep waisted, painted of a canary yellow, and towering above the\nfishing-boats like a swan among ducklings.\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" said the knight, \"our good merchant of Southampton hath\nnot played us false, for methinks I can see our ship down yonder. He\nsaid that she would be of great size and of a yellow shade.\"\n\n\"By my hilt, yes!\" muttered Aylward; \"she is yellow as a kite's claw,\nand would carry as many men as there are pips in a pomegranate.\"\n\n\"It is as well,\" remarked Terlake; \"for methinks, my fair lord, that\nwe are not the only ones who are waiting a passage to Gascony. Mine eye\ncatches at times a flash and sparkle among yonder houses which assuredly\nnever came from shipman's jacket or the gaberdine of a burgher.\"\n\n\"I can also see it,\" said Alleyne, shading his eyes with his hand. \"And\nI can see men-at-arms in yonder boats which ply betwixt the vessel and\nthe shore. But methinks that we are very welcome here, for already they\ncome forth to meet us.\"\n\nA tumultuous crowd of fishermen, citizens, and women had indeed swarmed\nout from the northern gate, and approached them up the side of the moor,\nwaving their hands and dancing with joy, as though a great fear had been\nrolled back from their minds. At their head rode a very large and solemn\nman with a long chin and a drooping lip. He wore a fur tippet round his\nneck and a heavy gold chain over it, with a medallion which dangled in\nfront of him.\n\n\"Welcome, most puissant and noble lord,\" he cried, doffing his bonnet\nto Black Simon. \"I have heard of your lordship's valiant deeds, and in\nsooth they might be expected from your lordship's face and bearing. Is\nthere any small matter in which I may oblige you?\"\n\n\"Since you ask me,\" said the man-at-arms, \"I would take it kindly if you\ncould spare a link or two of the chain which hangs round your neck.\"\n\n\"What, the corporation chain!\" cried the other in horror. \"The ancient\nchain of the township of Lepe! This is but a sorry jest, Sir Nigel.\"\n\n\"What the plague did you ask me for then?\" said Simon. \"But if it is\nSir Nigel Loring with whom you would speak, that is he upon the black\nhorse.\"\n\nThe Mayor of Lepe gazed with amazement on the mild face and slender\nframe of the famous warrior.\n\n\"Your pardon, my gracious lord,\" he cried. \"You see in me the mayor and\nchief magistrate of the ancient and powerful town of Lepe. I bid you\nvery heartily welcome, and the more so as you are come at a moment when\nwe are sore put to it for means of defence.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Sir Nigel, pricking up his ears.\n\n\"Yes, my lord, for the town being very ancient and the walls as old\nas the town, it follows that they are very ancient too. But there is a\ncertain villainous and bloodthirsty Norman pirate hight Tete-noire, who,\nwith a Genoan called Tito Caracci, commonly known as Spade-beard, hath\nbeen a mighty scourge upon these coasts. Indeed, my lord, they are very\ncruel and black-hearted men, graceless and ruthless, and if they should\ncome to the ancient and powerful town of Lepe then--\"\n\n\"Then good-bye to the ancient and powerful town of Lepe,\" quoth Ford,\nwhose lightness of tongue could at times rise above his awe of Sir\nNigel.\n\nThe knight, however, was too much intent upon the matter in hand to give\nheed to the flippancy of his squire. \"Have you then cause,\" he asked,\n\"to think that these men are about to venture an attempt upon you?\"\n\n\"They have come in two great galleys,\" answered the mayor, \"with two\nbank of oars on either side, and great store of engines of war and\nof men-at-arms. At Weymouth and at Portland they have murdered and\nravished. Yesterday morning they were at Cowes, and we saw the smoke\nfrom the burning crofts. To-day they lie at their ease near Freshwater,\nand we fear much lest they come upon us and do us a mischief.\"\n\n\"We cannot tarry,\" said Sir Nigel, riding towards the town, with the\nmayor upon his left side; \"the Prince awaits us at Bordeaux, and we may\nnot be behind the general muster. Yet I will promise you that on our way\nwe shall find time to pass Freshwater and to prevail upon these rovers\nto leave you in peace.\"\n\n\"We are much beholden to you!\" cried the mayor \"But I cannot see, my\nlord, how, without a war-ship, you may venture against these men. With\nyour archers, however, you might well hold the town and do them great\nscath if they attempt to land.\"\n\n\"There is a very proper cog out yonder,\" said Sir Nigel, \"it would be a\nvery strange thing if any ship were not a war-ship when it had such men\nas these upon her decks. Certes, we shall do as I say, and that no later\nthan this very day.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said a rough-haired, dark-faced man, who walked by the\nknight's other stirrup, with his head sloped to catch all that he was\nsaying. \"By your leave, I have no doubt that you are skilled in land\nfighting and the marshalling of lances, but, by my soul! you will find\nit another thing upon the sea. I am the master-shipman of this yellow\ncog, and my name is Goodwin Hawtayne. I have sailed since I was as high\nas this staff, and I have fought against these Normans and against the\nGenoese, as well as the Scotch, the Bretons, the Spanish, and the Moors.\nI tell you, sir, that my ship is over light and over frail for such\nwork, and it will but end in our having our throats cut, or being sold\nas slaves to the Barbary heathen.\"\n\n\"I also have experienced one or two gentle and honorable ventures upon\nthe sea,\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"and I am right blithe to have so fair a task\nbefore us. I think, good master-shipman, that you and I may win great\nhonor in this matter, and I can see very readily that you are a brave\nand stout man.\"\n\n\"I like it not,\" said the other sturdily. \"In God's name, I like it not.\nAnd yet Goodwin Hawtayne is not the man to stand back when his fellows\nare for pressing forward. By my soul! be it sink or swim, I shall\nturn her beak into Freshwater Bay, and if good Master Witherton, of\nSouthampton, like not my handling of his ship then he may find another\nmaster-shipman.\"\n\nThey were close by the old north gate of the little town, and Alleyne,\nhalf turning in his saddle, looked back at the motley crowd who\nfollowed. The bowmen and men-at-arms had broken their ranks and were\nintermingled with the fishermen and citizens, whose laughing faces\nand hearty gestures bespoke the weight of care from which this welcome\narrival had relieved them. Here and there among the moving throng of\ndark jerkins and of white surcoats were scattered dashes of scarlet and\nblue, the whimples or shawls of the women. Aylward, with a fishing lass\non either arm, was vowing constancy alternately to her on the right and\nher on the left, while big John towered in the rear with a little chubby\nmaiden enthroned upon his great shoulder, her soft white arm curled\nround his shining headpiece. So the throng moved on, until at the very\ngate it was brought to a stand by a wondrously fat man, who came darting\nforth from the town with rage in every feature of his rubicund face.\n\n\"How now, Sir Mayor?\" he roared, in a voice like a bull. \"How now, Sir\nMayor? How of the clams and the scallops?\"\n\n\"By Our Lady! my sweet Sir Oliver,\" cried the mayor. \"I have had so much\nto think of, with these wicked villains so close upon us, that it had\nquite gone out of my head.\"\n\n\"Words, words!\" shouted the other furiously. \"Am I to be put off with\nwords? I say to you again, how of the clams and scallops?\"\n\n\"My fair sir, you flatter me,\" cried the mayor. \"I am a peaceful trader,\nand I am not wont to be so shouted at upon so small a matter.\"\n\n\"Small!\" shrieked the other. \"Small! Clams and scallops! Ask me to your\ntable to partake of the dainty of the town, and when I come a barren\nwelcome and a bare board! Where is my spear-bearer?\"\n\n\"Nay, Sir Oliver, Sir Oliver!\" cried Sir Nigel, laughing.\n\n\"Let your anger be appeased, since instead of this dish you come upon an\nold friend and comrade.\"\n\n\"By St. Martin of Tours!\" shouted the fat knight, his wrath all changed\nin an instant to joy, \"if it is not my dear little game rooster of the\nGaronne. Ah, my sweet coz, I am right glad to see you. What days we have\nseen together!\"\n\n\"Aye, by my faith,\" cried Sir Nigel, with sparkling eyes, \"we have\nseen some valiant men, and we have shown our pennons in some noble\nskirmishes. By St. Paul! we have had great joys in France.\"\n\n\"And sorrows also,\" quoth the other. \"I have some sad memories of the\nland. Can you recall that which befell us at Libourne?\"\n\n\"Nay, I cannot call to mind that we ever so much as drew sword at the\nplace.\"\n\n\"Man, man,\" cried Sir Oliver, \"your mind still runs on nought but blades\nand bassinets. Hast no space in thy frame for the softer joys. Ah,\neven now I can scarce speak of it unmoved. So noble a pie, such tender\npigeons, and sugar in the gravy instead of salt! You were by my side\nthat day, as were Sir Claude Latour and the Lord of Pommers.\"\n\n\"I remember it,\" said Sir Nigel, laughing, \"and how you harried the cook\ndown the street, and spoke of setting fire to the inn. By St. Paul! most\nworthy mayor, my old friend is a perilous man, and I rede you that you\ncompose your difference with him on such terms as you may.\"\n\n\"The clams and scallops shall be ready within the hour,\" the mayor\nanswered. \"I had asked Sir Oliver Buttesthorn to do my humble board\nthe honor to partake at it of the dainty upon which we take some little\npride, but in sooth this alarm of pirates hath cast such a shadow on my\nwits that I am like one distrait. But I trust, Sir Nigel, that you will\nalso partake of none-meat with me?\"\n\n\"I have overmuch to do,\" Sir Nigel answered, \"for we must be aboard,\nhorse and man, as early as we may. How many do you muster, Sir Oliver?\"\n\n\"Three and forty. The forty are drunk, and the three are but indifferent\nsober. I have them all safe upon the ship.\"\n\n\"They had best find their wits again, for I shall have work for every\nman of them ere the sun set. It is my intention, if it seems good to\nyou, to try a venture against these Norman and Genoese rovers.\"\n\n\"They carry caviare and certain very noble spices from the Levant aboard\nof ships from Genoa,\" quoth Sir Oliver. \"We may come to great profit\nthrough the business. I pray you, master-shipman, that when you go on\nboard you pour a helmetful of sea-water over any of my rogues whom you\nmay see there.\"\n\nLeaving the lusty knight and the Mayor of Lepe, Sir Nigel led the\nCompany straight down to the water's edge, where long lines of flat\nlighters swiftly bore them to their vessel. Horse after horse was slung\nby main force up from the barges, and after kicking and plunging in\nempty air was dropped into the deep waist of the yellow cog, where rows\nof stalls stood ready for their safe keeping. Englishmen in those days\nwere skilled and prompt in such matters, for it was so not long before\nthat Edward had embarked as many as fifty thousand men in the port\nof Orwell, with their horses and their baggage, all in the space of\nfour-and-twenty hours. So urgent was Sir Nigel on the shore, and so\nprompt was Goodwin Hawtayne on the cog, that Sir Oliver Buttesthorn had\nscarce swallowed his last scallop ere the peal of the trumpet and clang\nof nakir announced that all was ready and the anchor drawn. In the last\nboat which left the shore the two commanders sat together in the sheets,\na strange contrast to one another, while under the feet of the rowers\nwas a litter of huge stones which Sir Nigel had ordered to be carried to\nthe cog. These once aboard, the ship set her broad mainsail, purple\nin color, and with a golden St. Christopher bearing Christ upon his\nshoulder in the centre of it. The breeze blew, the sail bellied, over\nheeled the portly vessel, and away she plunged through the smooth blue\nrollers, amid the clang of the minstrels on her poop and the shouting of\nthe black crowd who fringed the yellow beach. To the left lay the green\nIsland of Wight, with its long, low, curving hills peeping over each\nother's shoulders to the sky-line; to the right the wooded Hampshire\ncoast as far as eye could reach; above a steel-blue heaven, with a\nwintry sun shimmering down upon them, and enough of frost to set the\nbreath a-smoking.\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" said Sir Nigel gayly, as he stood upon the poop and\nlooked on either side of him, \"it is a land which is very well worth\nfighting for, and it were pity to go to France for what may be had at\nhome. Did you not spy a crooked man upon the beach?\"\n\n\"Nay, I spied nothing,\" grumbled Sir Oliver, \"for I was hurried down\nwith a clam stuck in my gizzard and an untasted goblet of Cyprus on the\nboard behind me.\"\n\n\"I saw him, my fair lord,\" said Terlake, \"an old man with one shoulder\nhigher than the other.\"\n\n\"'Tis a sign of good fortune,\" quoth Sir Nigel. \"Our path was also\ncrossed by a woman and by a priest, so all should be well with us. What\nsay you, Edricson?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell, my fair lord. The Romans of old were a very wise people,\nyet, certes, they placed their faith in such matters. So, too, did\nthe Greeks, and divers other ancient peoples who were famed for their\nlearning. Yet of the moderns there are many who scoff at all omens.\"\n\n\"There can be no manner of doubt about it,\" said Sir Oliver Buttesthorn.\n\"I can well remember that in Navarre one day it thundered on the left\nout of a cloudless sky. We knew that ill would come of it, nor had we\nlong to wait. Only thirteen days after, a haunch of prime venison was\ncarried from my very tent door by the wolves, and on the same day two\nflasks of old vernage turned sour and muddy.\"\n\n\"You may bring my harness from below,\" said Sir Nigel to his squires,\n\"and also, I pray you, bring up Sir Oliver's and we shall don it here.\nYe may then see to your own gear; for this day you will, I hope, make a\nvery honorable entrance into the field of chivalry, and prove yourselves\nto be very worthy and valiant squires. And now, Sir Oliver, as to our\ndispositions: would it please you that I should order them or will you?\"\n\n\"You, my cockerel, you. By Our Lady! I am no chicken, but I cannot claim\nto know as much of war as the squire of Sir Walter Manny. Settle the\nmatter to your own liking.\"\n\n\"You shall fly your pennon upon the fore part, then, and I upon the\npoop. For foreguard I shall give you your own forty men, with two-score\narchers. Two-score men, with my own men-at-arms and squires, will serve\nas a poop-guard. Ten archers, with thirty shipmen, under the master, may\nhold the waist while ten lie aloft with stones and arbalests. How like\nyou that?\"\n\n\"Good, by my faith, good! But here comes my harness, and I must to work,\nfor I cannot slip into it as I was wont when first I set my face to the\nwars.\"\n\nMeanwhile there had been bustle and preparation in all parts of the\ngreat vessel. The archers stood in groups about the decks, new-stringing\ntheir bows, and testing that they were firm at the nocks. Among them\nmoved Aylward and other of the older soldiers, with a few whispered\nwords of precept here and of warning there.\n\n\"Stand to it, my hearts of gold,\" said the old bowman as he passed from\nknot to knot. \"By my hilt! we are in luck this journey. Bear in mind the\nold saying of the Company.\"\n\n\"What is that, Aylward?\" cried several, leaning on their bows and\nlaughing at him.\n\n\"'Tis the master-bowyer's rede: 'Every bow well bent. Every shaft well\nsent. Every stave well nocked. Every string well locked.' There, with\nthat jingle in his head, a bracer on his left hand, a shooting glove on\nhis right, and a farthing's-worth of wax in his girdle, what more doth a\nbowman need?\"\n\n\"It would not be amiss,\" said Hordle John, \"if under his girdle he had\nfour farthings'-worth of wine.\"\n\n\"Work first, wine afterwards, mon camarade. But it is time that we\ntook our order, for methinks that between the Needle rocks and the Alum\ncliffs yonder I can catch a glimpse of the topmasts of the galleys.\nHewett, Cook, Johnson, Cunningham, your men are of the poop-guard.\nThornbury, Walters, Hackett, Baddlesmere, you are with Sir Oliver on the\nforecastle. Simon, you bide with your lord's banner; but ten men must go\nforward.\"\n\nQuietly and promptly the men took their places, lying flat upon their\nfaces on the deck, for such was Sir Nigel's order. Near the prow was\nplanted Sir Oliver's spear, with his arms--a boar's head gules upon a\nfield of gold. Close by the stern stood Black Simon with the pennon of\nthe house of Loring. In the waist gathered the Southampton mariners,\nhairy and burly men, with their jerkins thrown off, their waists braced\ntight, swords, mallets, and pole-axes in their hands. Their leader,\nGoodwin Hawtayne, stood upon the poop and talked with Sir Nigel, casting\nhis eye up sometimes at the swelling sail, and then glancing back at the\ntwo seamen who held the tiller.\n\n\"Pass the word,\" said Sir Nigel, \"that no man shall stand to arms or\ndraw his bow-string until my trumpeter shall sound. It would be well\nthat we should seem to be a merchant-ship from Southampton and appear to\nflee from them.\"\n\n\"We shall see them anon,\" said the master-shipman. \"Ha, said I not so?\nThere they lie, the water-snakes, in Freshwater Bay; and mark the reek\nof smoke from yonder point, where they have been at their devil's work.\nSee how their shallops pull from the land! They have seen us and called\ntheir men aboard. Now they draw upon the anchor. See them like ants upon\nthe forecastle! They stoop and heave like handy ship men. But, my fair\nlord, these are no niefs. I doubt but we have taken in hand more than\nwe can do. Each of these ships is a galeasse, and of the largest and\nswiftest make.\"\n\n\"I would I had your eyes,\" said Sir Nigel, blinking at the pirate\ngalleys. \"They seem very gallant ships, and I trust that we shall have\nmuch pleasance from our meeting with them. It would be well to pass the\nword that we should neither give nor take quarter this day. Have you\nperchance a priest or friar aboard this ship, Master Hawtayne?\"\n\n\"No, my fair lord.\"\n\n\"Well, well, it is no great matter for my Company, for they were all\nhouseled and shriven ere we left Twynham Castle; and Father Christopher\nof the Priory gave me his word that they were as fit to march to heaven\nas to Gascony. But my mind misdoubts me as to these Winchester men who\nhave come with Sir Oliver, for they appear to be a very ungodly crew.\nPass the word that the men kneel, and that the under-officers repeat to\nthem the pater, the ave, and the credo.\"\n\nWith a clank of arms, the rough archers and seamen took to their knees,\nwith bent heads and crossed hands, listening to the hoarse mutter from\nthe file-leaders. It was strange to mark the hush; so that the lapping\nof the water, the straining of the sail, and the creaking of the timbers\ngrew louder of a sudden upon the ear. Many of the bowmen had drawn\namulets and relics from their bosoms, while he who possessed some\nmore than usually sanctified treasure passed it down the line of his\ncomrades, that all might kiss and reap the virtue.\n\nThe yellow cog had now shot out from the narrow waters of the Solent,\nand was plunging and rolling on the long heave of the open channel. The\nwind blew freshly from the east, with a very keen edge to it; and the\ngreat sail bellied roundly out, laying the vessel over until the water\nhissed beneath her lee bulwarks. Broad and ungainly, she floundered from\nwave to wave, dipping her round bows deeply into the blue rollers, and\nsending the white flakes of foam in a spatter over her decks. On her\nlarboard quarter lay the two dark galleys, which had already hoisted\nsail, and were shooting out from Freshwater Bay in swift pursuit, their\ndouble line of oars giving them a vantage which could not fail to bring\nthem up with any vessel which trusted to sails alone. High and bluff the\nEnglish cog; long, black and swift the pirate galleys, like two fierce\nlean wolves which have seen a lordly and unsuspecting stag walk past\ntheir forest lair.\n\n\"Shall we turn, my fair lord, or shall we carry on?\" asked the\nmaster-shipman, looking behind him with anxious eyes.\n\n\"Nay, we must carry on and play the part of the helpless merchant.\"\n\n\"But your pennons? They will see that we have two knights with us.\"\n\n\"Yet it would not be to a knight's honor or good name to lower his\npennon. Let them be, and they will think that we are a wine-ship for\nGascony, or that we bear the wool-bales of some mercer of the Staple. Ma\nfoi, but they are very swift! They swoop upon us like two goshawks on a\nheron. Is there not some symbol or device upon their sails?\"\n\n\"That on the right,\" said Edricson, \"appears to have the head of an\nEthiop upon it.\"\n\n\"'Tis the badge of Tete-noire, the Norman,\" cried a seaman-mariner. \"I\nhave seen it before, when he harried us at Winchelsea. He is a wondrous\nlarge and strong man, with no ruth for man, woman, or beast. They say\nthat he hath the strength of six; and, certes, he hath the crimes of six\nupon his soul. See, now, to the poor souls who swing at either end of\nhis yard-arm!\"\n\nAt each end of the yard there did indeed hang the dark figure of a man,\njolting and lurching with hideous jerkings of its limbs at every plunge\nand swoop of the galley.\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" said Sir Nigel, \"and by the help of St. George and Our\nLady, it will be a very strange thing if our black-headed friend does\nnot himself swing thence ere he be many hours older. But what is that\nupon the other galley?\"\n\n\"It is the red cross of Genoa. This Spade-beard is a very noted captain,\nand it is his boast that there are no seamen and no archers in the world\nwho can compare with those who serve the Doge Boccanegra.\"\n\n\"That we shall prove,\" said Goodwin Hawtayne; \"but it would be well,\nere they close with us, to raise up the mantlets and pavises as a screen\nagainst their bolts.\" He shouted a hoarse order, and his seamen worked\nswiftly and silently, heightening the bulwarks and strengthening them.\nThe three ship's anchors were at Sir Nigel's command carried into the\nwaist, and tied to the mast, with twenty feet of cable between, each\nunder the care of four seamen. Eight others were stationed with leather\nwater-bags to quench any fire-arrows which might come aboard, while\nothers were sent up the mast, to lie along the yard and drop stones or\nshoot arrows as the occasion served.\n\n\"Let them be supplied with all that is heavy and weighty in the ship,\"\nsaid Sir Nigel.\n\n\"Then we must send them up Sir Oliver Buttesthorn,\" quoth Ford.\n\nThe knight looked at him with a face which struck the smile from his\nlips. \"No squire of mine,\" he said, \"shall ever make jest of a belted\nknight. And yet,\" he added, his eyes softening, \"I know that it is but\na boy's mirth, with no sting in it. Yet I should ill do my part towards\nyour father if I did not teach you to curb your tongue-play.\"\n\n\"They will lay us aboard on either quarter, my lord,\" cried the master.\n\"See how they stretch out from each other! The Norman hath a mangonel\nor a trabuch upon the forecastle. See, they bend to the levers! They are\nabout to loose it.\"\n\n\"Aylward,\" cried the knight, \"pick your three trustiest archers, and see\nif you cannot do something to hinder their aim. Methinks they are within\nlong arrow flight.\"\n\n\"Seventeen score paces,\" said the archer, running his eye backwards and\nforwards. \"By my ten finger-bones! it would be a strange thing if we\ncould not notch a mark at that distance. Here, Watkin of Sowley, Arnold,\nLong Williams, let us show the rogues that they have English bowmen to\ndeal with.\"\n\nThe three archers named stood at the further end of the poop, balancing\nthemselves with feet widely spread and bows drawn, until the heads of\nthe cloth-yard arrows were level with the centre of the stave. \"You\nare the surer, Watkin,\" said Aylward, standing by them with shaft upon\nstring. \"Do you take the rogue with the red coif. You two bring down the\nman with the head-piece, and I will hold myself ready if you miss. Ma\nfoi! they are about to loose her. Shoot, mes garcons, or you will be too\nlate.\"\n\nThe throng of pirates had cleared away from the great wooden catapult,\nleaving two of their number to discharge it. One in a scarlet cap\nbent over it, steadying the jagged rock which was balanced on the\nspoon-shaped end of the long wooden lever. The other held the loop of\nthe rope which would release the catch and send the unwieldy missile\nhurtling through the air. So for an instant they stood, showing hard and\nclear against the white sail behind them. The next, redcap had fallen\nacross the stone with an arrow between his ribs; and the other, struck\nin the leg and in the throat, was writhing and spluttering upon the\nground. As he toppled backwards he had loosed the spring, and the huge\nbeam of wood, swinging round with tremendous force, cast the corpse of\nhis comrade so close to the English ship that its mangled and distorted\nlimbs grazed their very stern. As to the stone, it glanced off obliquely\nand fell midway between the vessels. A roar of cheering and of laughter\nbroke from the rough archers and seamen at the sight, answered by a yell\nof rage from their pursuers.\n\n\"Lie low, mes enfants,\" cried Aylward, motioning with his left hand.\n\"They will learn wisdom. They are bringing forward shield and mantlet.\nWe shall have some pebbles about our ears ere long.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI. HOW THE YELLOW COG FOUGHT THE TWO ROVER GALLEYS.\n\n\nThe three vessels had been sweeping swiftly westwards, the cog still\nwell to the front, although the galleys were slowly drawing in upon\neither quarter. To the left was a hard skyline unbroken by a sail. The\nisland already lay like a cloud behind them, while right in front\nwas St. Alban's Head, with Portland looming mistily in the farthest\ndistance. Alleyne stood by the tiller, looking backwards, the fresh wind\nfull in his teeth, the crisp winter air tingling on his face and blowing\nhis yellow curls from under his bassinet. His cheeks were flushed and\nhis eyes shining, for the blood of a hundred fighting Saxon ancestors\nwas beginning to stir in his veins.\n\n\"What was that?\" he asked, as a hissing, sharp-drawn voice seemed to\nwhisper in his ear. The steersman smiled, and pointed with his foot to\nwhere a short heavy cross-bow quarrel stuck quivering in the boards.\nAt the same instant the man stumbled forward upon his knees, and lay\nlifeless upon the deck, a blood-stained feather jutting out from his\nback. As Alleyne stooped to raise him, the air seemed to be alive with\nthe sharp zip-zip of the bolts, and he could hear them pattering on the\ndeck like apples at a tree-shaking.\n\n\"Raise two more mantlets by the poop-lanthorn,\" said Sir Nigel quietly.\n\n\"And another man to the tiller,\" cried the master-shipman.\n\n\"Keep them in play, Aylward, with ten of your men,\" the knight\ncontinued. \"And let ten of Sir Oliver's bowmen do as much for the\nGenoese. I have no mind as yet to show them how much they have to fear\nfrom us.\"\n\nTen picked shots under Aylward stood in line across the broad deck, and\nit was a lesson to the young squires who had seen nothing of war to note\nhow orderly and how cool were these old soldiers, how quick the command,\nand how prompt the carrying out, ten moving like one. Their comrades\ncrouched beneath the bulwarks, with many a rough jest and many a scrap\nof criticism or advice. \"Higher, Wat, higher!\" \"Put thy body into it,\nWill!\" \"Forget not the wind, Hal!\" So ran the muttered chorus, while\nhigh above it rose the sharp twanging of the strings, the hiss of the\nshafts, and the short \"Draw your arrow! Nick your arrow! Shoot wholly\ntogether!\" from the master-bowman.\n\nAnd now both mangonels were at work from the galleys, but so covered\nand protected that, save at the moment of discharge, no glimpse could\nbe caught of them. A huge brown rock from the Genoese sang over their\nheads, and plunged sullenly into the slope of a wave. Another from the\nNorman whizzed into the waist, broke the back of a horse, and crashed\nits way through the side of the vessel. Two others, flying together,\ntore a great gap in the St. Christopher upon the sail, and brushed three\nof Sir Oliver's men-at-arms from the forecastle. The master-shipman\nlooked at the knight with a troubled face.\n\n\"They keep their distance from us,\" said he. \"Our archery is over-good,\nand they will not close. What defence can we make against the stones?\"\n\n\"I think I may trick them,\" the knight answered cheerfully, and passed\nhis order to the archers. Instantly five of them threw up their hands\nand fell prostrate upon the deck. One had already been slain by a bolt,\nso that there were but four upon their feet.\n\n\"That should give them heart,\" said Sir Nigel, eyeing the galleys, which\ncrept along on either side, with a slow, measured swing of their great\noars, the water swirling and foaming under their sharp stems.\n\n\"They still hold aloof,\" cried Hawtayne.\n\n\"Then down with two more,\" shouted their leader. \"That will do. Ma foi!\nbut they come to our lure like chicks to the fowler. To your arms, men!\nThe pennon behind me, and the squires round the pennon. Stand fast with\nthe anchors in the waist, and be ready for a cast. Now blow out the\ntrumpets, and may God's benison be with the honest men!\"\n\nAs he spoke a roar of voices and a roll of drums came from either\ngalley, and the water was lashed into spray by the hurried beat of a\nhundred oars. Down they swooped, one on the right, one on the left, the\nsides and shrouds black with men and bristling with weapons. In heavy\nclusters they hung upon the forecastle all ready for a spring--faces\nwhite, faces brown, faces yellow, and faces black, fair Norsemen,\nswarthy Italians, fierce rovers from the Levant, and fiery Moors from\nthe Barbary States, of all hues and countries, and marked solely by the\ncommon stamp of a wild-beast ferocity. Rasping up on either side,\nwith oars trailing to save them from snapping, they poured in a\nliving torrent with horrid yell and shrill whoop upon the defenceless\nmerchantman.\n\nBut wilder yet was the cry, and shriller still the scream, when there\nrose up from the shadow of those silent bulwarks the long lines of\nthe English bowmen, and the arrows whizzed in a deadly sleet among the\nunprepared masses upon the pirate decks. From the higher sides of the\ncog the bowmen could shoot straight down, at a range which was so short\nas to enable a cloth-yard shaft to pierce through mail-coats or to\ntransfix a shield, though it were an inch thick of toughened wood.\nOne moment Alleyne saw the galley's poop crowded with rushing figures,\nwaving arms, exultant faces; the next it was a blood-smeared shambles,\nwith bodies piled three deep upon each other, the living cowering behind\nthe dead to shelter themselves from that sudden storm-blast of death.\nOn either side the seamen whom Sir Nigel had chosen for the purpose\nhad cast their anchors over the side of the galleys, so that the three\nvessels, locked in an iron grip, lurched heavily forward upon the swell.\n\nAnd now set in a fell and fierce fight, one of a thousand of which no\nchronicler has spoken and no poet sung. Through all the centuries and\nover all those southern waters nameless men have fought in nameless\nplaces, their sole monuments a protected coast and an unravaged\ncountry-side.\n\nFore and aft the archers had cleared the galleys' decks, but from either\nside the rovers had poured down into the waist, where the seamen and\nbowmen were pushed back and so mingled with their foes that it was\nimpossible for their comrades above to draw string to help them. It\nwas a wild chaos where axe and sword rose and fell, while Englishman,\nNorman, and Italian staggered and reeled on a deck which was cumbered\nwith bodies and slippery with blood. The clang of blows, the cries of\nthe stricken, the short, deep shout of the islanders, and the fierce\nwhoops of the rovers, rose together in a deafening tumult, while the\nbreath of the panting men went up in the wintry air like the smoke from\na furnace. The giant Tete-noire, towering above his fellows and clad\nfrom head to foot in plate of proof, led on his boarders, waving a\nhuge mace in the air, with which he struck to the deck every man who\napproached him. On the other side, Spade-beard, a dwarf in height, but\nof great breadth of shoulder and length of arm, had cut a road almost\nto the mast, with three-score Genoese men-at-arms close at his heels.\nBetween these two formidable assailants the seamen were being slowly\nwedged more closely together, until they stood back to back under the\nmast with the rovers raging upon every side of them.\n\nBut help was close at hand. Sir Oliver Buttesthorn with his men-at-arms\nhad swarmed down from the forecastle, while Sir Nigel, with his three\nsquires, Black Simon, Aylward, Hordle John, and a score more, threw\nthemselves from the poop and hurled themselves into the thickest of the\nfight. Alleyne, as in duty bound, kept his eyes fixed ever on his\nlord and pressed forward close at his heels. Often had he heard of Sir\nNigel's prowess and skill with all knightly weapons, but all the tales\nthat had reached his ears fell far short of the real quickness and\ncoolness of the man. It was as if the devil was in him, for he sprang\nhere and sprang there, now thrusting and now cutting, catching blows on\nhis shield, turning them with his blade, stooping under the swing of an\naxe, springing over the sweep of a sword, so swift and so erratic that\nthe man who braced himself for a blow at him might find him six paces\noff ere he could bring it down. Three pirates had fallen before him, and\nhe had wounded Spade-beard in the neck, when the Norman giant sprang at\nhim from the side with a slashing blow from his deadly mace. Sir Nigel\nstooped to avoid it, and at the same instant turned a thrust from the\nGenoese swordsman, but, his foot slipping in a pool of blood, he fell\nheavily to the ground. Alleyne sprang in front of the Norman, but his\nsword was shattered and he himself beaten to the ground by a second\nblow from the ponderous weapon. Ere the pirate chief could repeat it,\nhowever, John's iron grip fell upon his wrist, and he found that for\nonce he was in the hands of a stronger man than himself.\n\nFiercely he strove to disengage his weapon, but Hordle John bent his arm\nslowly back until, with a sharp crack, like a breaking stave, it turned\nlimp in his grasp, and the mace dropped from the nerveless fingers. In\nvain he tried to pluck it up with the other hand. Back and back still\nhis foeman bent him, until, with a roar of pain and of fury, the giant\nclanged his full length upon the boards, while the glimmer of a knife\nbefore the bars of his helmet warned him that short would be his shrift\nif he moved.\n\nCowed and disheartened by the loss of their leader, the Normans had\ngiven back and were now streaming over the bulwarks on to their own\ngalley, dropping a dozen at a time on to her deck. But the anchor still\nheld them in its crooked claw, and Sir Oliver with fifty men was hard\nupon their heels. Now, too, the archers had room to draw their bows\nonce more, and great stones from the yard of the cog came thundering and\ncrashing among the flying rovers. Here and there they rushed with wild\nscreams and curses, diving under the sail, crouching behind booms,\nhuddling into corners like rabbits when the ferrets are upon them,\nas helpless and as hopeless. They were stern days, and if the honest\nsoldier, too poor for a ransom, had no prospect of mercy upon the\nbattle-field, what ruth was there for sea robbers, the enemies of\nhumankind, taken in the very deed, with proofs of their crimes still\nswinging upon their yard-arm.\n\nBut the fight had taken a new and a strange turn upon the other side.\nSpade-beard and his men had given slowly back, hard pressed by Sir\nNigel, Aylward, Black Simon, and the poop-guard. Foot by foot the\nItalian had retreated, his armor running blood at every joint, his\nshield split, his crest shorn, his voice fallen away to a mere gasping\nand croaking. Yet he faced his foemen with dauntless courage, dashing\nin, springing back, sure-footed, steady-handed, with a point which\nseemed to menace three at once. Beaten back on to the deck of his\nown vessel, and closely followed by a dozen Englishmen, he disengaged\nhimself from them, ran swiftly down the deck, sprang back into the\ncog once more, cut the rope which held the anchor, and was back in an\ninstant among his crossbow-men. At the same time the Genoese sailors\nthrust with their oars against the side of the cog, and a rapidly\nwidening rift appeared between the two vessels.\n\n\"By St. George!\" cried Ford, \"we are cut off from Sir Nigel.\"\n\n\"He is lost,\" gasped Terlake. \"Come, let us spring for it.\" The two\nyouths jumped with all their strength to reach the departing galley.\nFord's feet reached the edge of the bulwarks, and his hand clutching a\nrope he swung himself on board. Terlake fell short, crashed in among the\noars, and bounded off into the sea. Alleyne, staggering to the side, was\nabout to hurl himself after him, but Hordle John dragged him back by the\ngirdle.\n\n\"You can scarce stand, lad, far less jump,\" said he. \"See how the blood\nrips from your bassinet.\"\n\n\"My place is by the flag,\" cried Alleyne, vainly struggling to break\nfrom the other's hold.\n\n\"Bide here, man. You would need wings ere you could reach Sir Nigel's\nside.\"\n\nThe vessels were indeed so far apart now that the Genoese could use the\nfull sweep of their oars, and draw away rapidly from the cog.\n\n\"My God, but it is a noble fight!\" shouted big John, clapping his\nhands. \"They have cleared the poop, and they spring into the waist. Well\nstruck, my lord! Well struck, Aylward! See to Black Simon, how he storms\namong the shipmen! But this Spade-beard is a gallant warrior. He rallies\nhis men upon the forecastle. He hath slain an archer. Ha! my lord is\nupon him. Look to it, Alleyne! See to the whirl and glitter of it!\"\n\n\"By heaven, Sir Nigel is down!\" cried the squire.\n\n\"Up!\" roared John. \"It was but a feint. He bears him back. He drives\nhim to the side. Ah, by Our Lady, his sword is through him! They cry for\nmercy. Down goes the red cross, and up springs Simon with the scarlet\nroses!\"\n\nThe death of the Genoese leader did indeed bring the resistance to an\nend. Amid a thunder of cheering from cog and from galleys the forked\npennon fluttered upon the forecastle, and the galley, sweeping round,\ncame slowly back, as the slaves who rowed it learned the wishes of their\nnew masters.\n\nThe two knights had come aboard the cog, and the grapplings having been\nthrown off, the three vessels now moved abreast. Through all the storm\nand rush of the fight Alleyne had been aware of the voice of Goodwin\nHawtayne, the master-shipman, with his constant \"Hale the bowline!\nVeer the sheet!\" and strange it was to him to see how swiftly the\nblood-stained sailors turned from the strife to the ropes and back. Now\nthe cog's head was turned Francewards, and the shipman walked the deck,\na peaceful master-mariner once more.\n\n\"There is sad scath done to the cog, Sir Nigel,\" said he. \"Here is a\nhole in the side two ells across, the sail split through the centre,\nand the wood as bare as a friar's poll. In good sooth, I know not what I\nshall say to Master Witherton when I see the Itchen once more.\"\n\n\"By St. Paul! it would be a very sorry thing if we suffered you to be\nthe worse of this day's work,\" said Sir Nigel. \"You shall take these\ngalleys back with you, and Master Witherton may sell them. Then from the\nmoneys he shall take as much as may make good the damage, and the rest\nhe shall keep until our home-coming, when every man shall have his\nshare. An image of silver fifteen inches high I have vowed to the\nVirgin, to be placed in her chapel within the Priory, for that she was\npleased to allow me to come upon this Spade-beard, who seemed to me from\nwhat I have seen of him to be a very sprightly and valiant gentleman.\nBut how fares it with you, Edricson?\"\n\n\"It is nothing, my fair lord,\" said Alleyne, who had now loosened his\nbassinet, which was cracked across by the Norman's blow. Even as he\nspoke, however, his head swirled round, and he fell to the deck with the\nblood gushing from his nose and mouth.\n\n\"He will come to anon,\" said the knight, stooping over him and passing\nhis fingers through his hair. \"I have lost one very valiant and gentle\nsquire this day. I can ill afford to lose another. How many men have\nfallen?\"\n\n\"I have pricked off the tally,\" said Aylward, who had come aboard with\nhis lord. \"There are seven of the Winchester men, eleven seamen, your\nsquire, young Master Terlake, and nine archers.\"\n\n\"And of the others?\"\n\n\"They are all dead--save only the Norman knight who stands behind you.\nWhat would you that we should do with him?\"\n\n\"He must hang on his own yard,\" said Sir Nigel. \"It was my vow and must\nbe done.\"\n\nThe pirate leader had stood by the bulwarks, a cord round his arms,\nand two stout archers on either side. At Sir Nigel's words he started\nviolently, and his swarthy features blanched to a livid gray.\n\n\"How, Sir Knight?\" he cried in broken English. \"Que dites vous? To hang,\nle mort du chien! To hang!\"\n\n\"It is my vow,\" said Sir Nigel shortly. \"From what I hear, you thought\nlittle enough of hanging others.\"\n\n\"Peasants, base roturiers,\" cried the other. \"It is their fitting death.\nMais Le Seigneur d'Andelys, avec le sang des rois dans ses veins! C'est\nincroyable!\"\n\nSir Nigel turned upon his heel, while two seamen cast a noose over the\npirate's neck. At the touch of the cord he snapped the bonds which bound\nhim, dashed one of the archers to the deck, and seizing the other round\nthe waist sprang with him into the sea.\n\n\"By my hilt, he is gone!\" cried Aylward, rushing to the side. \"They have\nsunk together like a stone.\"\n\n\"I am right glad of it,\" answered Sir Nigel; \"for though it was against\nmy vow to loose him, I deem that he has carried himself like a very\ngentle and debonnaire cavalier.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII. HOW THE YELLOW COG CROSSED THE BAR OF GIRONDE.\n\n\nFor two days the yellow cog ran swiftly before a northeasterly wind, and\non the dawn of the third the high land of Ushant lay like a mist upon\nthe shimmering sky-line. There came a plump of rain towards mid-day\nand the breeze died down, but it freshened again before nightfall, and\nGoodwin Hawtayne veered his sheet and held head for the south. Next\nmorning they had passed Belle Isle, and ran through the midst of a fleet\nof transports returning from Guienne. Sir Nigel Loring and Sir Oliver\nButtesthorn at once hung their shields over the side, and displayed\ntheir pennons as was the custom, noting with the keenest interest the\nanswering symbols which told the names of the cavaliers who had been\nconstrained by ill health or wounds to leave the prince at so critical a\ntime.\n\nThat evening a great dun-colored cloud banked up in the west, and an\nanxious man was Goodwin Hawtayne, for a third part of his crew had been\nslain, and half the remainder were aboard the galleys, so that, with\nan injured ship, he was little fit to meet such a storm as sweeps over\nthose waters. All night it blew in short fitful puffs, heeling the great\ncog over until the water curled over her lee bulwarks. As the wind still\nfreshened the yard was lowered half way down the mast in the morning.\nAlleyne, wretchedly ill and weak, with his head still ringing from\nthe blow which he had received, crawled up upon deck. Water-swept and\naslant, it was preferable to the noisome, rat-haunted dungeons which\nserved as cabins. There, clinging to the stout halliards of the sheet,\nhe gazed with amazement at the long lines of black waves, each with\nits curling ridge of foam, racing in endless succession from out the\ninexhaustible west. A huge sombre cloud, flecked with livid blotches,\nstretched over the whole seaward sky-line, with long ragged streamers\nwhirled out in front of it. Far behind them the two galleys labored\nheavily, now sinking between the rollers until their yards were level\nwith the waves, and again shooting up with a reeling, scooping motion\nuntil every spar and rope stood out hard against the sky. On the left\nthe low-lying land stretched in a dim haze, rising here and there into\na darker blur which marked the higher capes and headlands. The land\nof France! Alleyne's eyes shone as he gazed upon it. The land of\nFrance!--the very words sounded as the call of a bugle in the ears of\nthe youth of England. The land where their fathers had bled, the home of\nchivalry and of knightly deeds, the country of gallant men, of courtly\nwomen, of princely buildings, of the wise, the polished and the sainted.\nThere it lay, so still and gray beneath the drifting wrack--the home of\nthings noble and of things shameful--the theatre where a new name\nmight be made or an old one marred. From his bosom to his lips came the\ncrumpled veil, and he breathed a vow that if valor and goodwill could\nraise him to his lady's side, then death alone should hold him back from\nher. His thoughts were still in the woods of Minstead and the old armory\nof Twynham Castle, when the hoarse voice of the master-shipman brought\nthem back once more to the Bay of Biscay.\n\n\"By my troth, young sir,\" he said, \"you are as long in the face as the\ndevil at a christening, and I cannot marvel at it, for I have sailed\nthese waters since I was as high as this whinyard, and yet I never saw\nmore sure promise of an evil night.\"\n\n\"Nay, I had other things upon my mind,\" the squire answered.\n\n\"And so has every man,\" cried Hawtayne in an injured voice. \"Let the\nshipman see to it. It is the master-shipman's affair. Put it all upon\ngood Master Hawtayne! Never had I so much care since first I blew\ntrumpet and showed cartel at the west gate of Southampton.\"\n\n\"What is amiss then?\" asked Alleyne, for the man's words were as gusty\nas the weather.\n\n\"Amiss, quotha? Here am I with but half my mariners, and a hole in the\nship where that twenty-devil stone struck us big enough to fit the fat\nwidow of Northam through. It is well enough on this tack, but I would\nhave you tell me what I am to do on the other. We are like to have\nsalt water upon us until we be found pickled like the herrings in an\nEasterling's barrels.\"\n\n\"What says Sir Nigel to it?\"\n\n\"He is below pricking out the coat-armor of his mother's uncle. 'Pester\nme not with such small matters!' was all that I could get from him. Then\nthere is Sir Oliver. 'Fry them in oil with a dressing of Gascony,' quoth\nhe, and then swore at me because I had not been the cook. 'Walawa,'\nthought I, 'mad master, sober man'--so away forward to the archers.\nHarrow and alas! but they were worse than the others.\"\n\n\"Would they not help you then?\"\n\n\"Nay, they sat tway and tway at a board, him that they call Aylward\nand the great red-headed man who snapped the Norman's arm-bone, and the\nblack man from Norwich, and a score of others, rattling their dice in\nan archer's gauntlet for want of a box. 'The ship can scarce last much\nlonger, my masters,' quoth I. 'That is your business, old swine's-head,'\ncried the black galliard. 'Le diable t'emporte,' says Aylward. 'A five,\na four and the main,' shouted the big man, with a voice like the flap of\na sail. Hark to them now, young sir, and say if I speak not sooth.\"\n\nAs he spoke, there sounded high above the shriek of the gale and the\nstraining of the timbers a gust of oaths with a roar of deep-chested\nmirth from the gamblers in the forecastle.\n\n\"Can I be of avail?\" asked Alleyne. \"Say the word and the thing is done,\nif two hands may do it.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, your head I can see is still totty, and i' faith little head\nwould you have, had your bassinet not stood your friend. All that may be\ndone is already carried out, for we have stuffed the gape with sails and\ncorded it without and within. Yet when we bale our bowline and veer the\nsheet our lives will hang upon the breach remaining blocked. See how\nyonder headland looms upon us through the mist! We must tack within\nthree arrow flights, or we may find a rock through our timbers. Now, St.\nChristopher be praised! here is Sir Nigel, with whom I may confer.\"\n\n\"I prythee that you will pardon me,\" said the knight, clutching his way\nalong the bulwark. \"I would not show lack of courtesy toward a worthy\nman, but I was deep in a matter of some weight, concerning which,\nAlleyne, I should be glad of your rede. It touches the question of\ndimidiation or impalement in the coat of mine uncle, Sir John Leighton\nof Shropshire, who took unto wife the widow of Sir Henry Oglander\nof Nunwell. The case has been much debated by pursuivants and\nkings-of-arms. But how is it with you, master shipman?\"\n\n\"Ill enough, my fair lord. The cog must go about anon, and I know not\nhow we may keep the water out of her.\"\n\n\"Go call Sir Oliver!\" said Sir Nigel, and presently the portly knight\nmade his way all astraddle down the slippery deck.\n\n\"By my soul, master-shipman, this passes all patience!\" he cried\nwrathfully. \"If this ship of yours must needs dance and skip like a\nclown at a kermesse, then I pray you that you will put me into one\nof these galeasses. I had but sat down to a flask of malvoisie and a\nmortress of brawn, as is my use about this hour, when there comes a\ncherking, and I find my wine over my legs and the flask in my lap, and\nthen as I stoop to clip it there comes another cursed cherk, and there\nis a mortress of brawn stuck fast to the nape of my neck. At this moment\nI have two pages coursing after it from side to side, like hounds behind\na leveret. Never did living pig gambol more lightly. But you have sent\nfor me, Sir Nigel?\"\n\n\"I would fain have your rede, Sir Oliver, for Master Hawtayne hath fears\nthat when we veer there may come danger from the hole in our side.\"\n\n\"Then do not veer,\" quoth Sir Oliver hastily. \"And now, fair sir, I must\nhasten back to see how my rogues have fared with the brawn.\"\n\n\"Nay, but this will scarce suffice,\" cried the shipman. \"If we do not\nveer we will be upon the rocks within the hour.\"\n\n\"Then veer,\" said Sir Oliver. \"There is my rede; and now, Sir Nigel, I\nmust crave----\"\n\nAt this instant, however, a startled shout rang out from two seamen upon\nthe forecastle. \"Rocks!\" they yelled, stabbing into the air with their\nforefingers. \"Rocks beneath our very bows!\" Through the belly of a great\nblack wave, not one hundred paces to the front of them, there thrust\nforth a huge jagged mass of brown stone, which spouted spray as though\nit were some crouching monster, while a dull menacing boom and roar\nfilled the air.\n\n\"Yare! yare!\" screamed Goodwin Hawtayne, flinging himself upon the long\npole which served as a tiller. \"Cut the halliard! Haul her over! Lay her\ntwo courses to the wind!\"\n\nOver swung the great boom, and the cog trembled and quivered within five\nspear-lengths of the breakers.\n\n\"She can scarce draw clear,\" cried Hawtayne, with his eyes from the sail\nto the seething line of foam. \"May the holy Julian stand by us and the\nthrice-sainted Christopher!\"\n\n\"If there be such peril, Sir Oliver,\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"it would be\nvery knightly and fitting that we should show our pennons. I pray you,\nEdricson, that you will command my guidon-bearer to put forward my\nbanner.\"\n\n\"And sound the trumpets!\" cried Sir Oliver. \"In manus tuas, Domine! I\nam in the keeping of James of Compostella, to whose shrine I shall make\npilgrimage, and in whose honor I vow that I will eat a carp each year\nupon his feast-day. Mon Dieu, but the waves roar! How is it with us now,\nmaster-shipman?\"\n\n\"We draw! We draw!\" cried Hawtayne, with his eyes still fixed upon the\nfoam which hissed under the very bulge of the side. \"Ah, Holy Mother, be\nwith us now!\"\n\nAs he spoke the cog rasped along the edge of the reef, and a long white\ncurling sheet of wood was planed off from her side from waist to poop by\na jutting horn of the rock. At the same instant she lay suddenly over,\nthe sail drew full, and she plunged seawards amid the shoutings of the\nseamen and the archers.\n\n\"The Virgin be praised!\" cried the shipman, wiping his brow. \"For this\nshall bell swing and candle burn when I see Southampton Water once more.\nCheerily, my hearts! Pull yarely on the bowline!\"\n\n\"By my soul! I would rather have a dry death,\" quoth Sir Oliver.\n\"Though, Mort Dieu! I have eaten so many fish that it were but justice\nthat the fish should eat me. Now I must back to the cabin, for I have\nmatters there which crave my attention.\"\n\n\"Nay, Sir Oliver, you had best bide with us, and still show your\nensign,\" Sir Nigel answered; \"for, if I understand the matter aright, we\nhave but turned from one danger to the other.\"\n\n\"Good Master Hawtayne,\" cried the boatswain, rushing aft, \"the water\ncomes in upon us apace. The waves have driven in the sail wherewith we\nstrove to stop the hole.\" As he spoke the seamen came swarming on to the\npoop and the forecastle to avoid the torrent which poured through the\nhuge leak into the waist. High above the roar of the wind and the clash\nof the sea rose the shrill half-human cries of the horses, as they found\nthe water rising rapidly around them.\n\n\"Stop it from without!\" cried Hawtayne, seizing the end of the wet sail\nwith which the gap had been plugged. \"Speedily, my hearts, or we are\ngone!\" Swiftly they rove ropes to the corners, and then, rushing forward\nto the bows, they lowered them under the keel, and drew them tight in\nsuch a way that the sail should cover the outer face of the gap. The\nforce of the rush of water was checked by this obstacle, but it still\nsquirted plentifully from every side of it. At the sides the horses\nwere above the belly, and in the centre a man from the poop could scarce\ntouch the deck with a seven-foot spear. The cog lay lower in the water\nand the waves splashed freely over the weather bulwark.\n\n\"I fear that we can scarce bide upon this tack,\" cried Hawtayne; \"and\nyet the other will drive us on the rocks.\"\n\n\"Might we not haul down sail and wait for better times?\" suggested Sir\nNigel.\n\n\"Nay, we should drift upon the rocks. Thirty years have I been on the\nsea, and never yet in greater straits. Yet we are in the hands of the\nSaints.\"\n\n\"Of whom,\" cried Sir Oliver, \"I look more particularly to St. James of\nCompostella, who hath already befriended us this day, and on whose feast\nI hereby vow that I shall eat a second carp, if he will but interpose a\nsecond time.\"\n\nThe wrack had thickened to seaward, and the coast was but a blurred\nline. Two vague shadows in the offing showed where the galeasses rolled\nand tossed upon the great Atlantic rollers. Hawtayne looked wistfully in\ntheir direction.\n\n\"If they would but lie closer we might find safety, even should the cog\nfounder. You will bear me out with good Master Witherton of Southampton\nthat I have done all that a shipman might. It would be well that you\nshould doff camail and greaves, Sir Nigel, for, by the black rood! it is\nlike enough that we shall have to swim for it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the little knight, \"it would be scarce fitting that a\ncavalier should throw off his harness for the fear of every puff of wind\nand puddle of water. I would rather that my Company should gather round\nme here on the poop, where we might abide together whatever God may be\npleased to send. But, certes, Master Hawtayne, for all that my sight\nis none of the best, it is not the first time that I have seen that\nheadland upon the left.\"\n\nThe seaman shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed earnestly through\nthe haze and spray. Suddenly he threw up his arms and shouted aloud in\nhis joy.\n\n\"'Tis the point of La Tremblade!\" he cried. \"I had not thought that we\nwere as far as Oleron. The Gironde lies before us, and once over the\nbar, and under shelter of the Tour de Cordouan, all will be well with\nus. Veer again, my hearts, and bring her to try with the main course!\"\n\nThe sail swung round once more, and the cog, battered and torn and\nwell-nigh water-logged, staggered in for this haven of refuge. A bluff\ncape to the north and a long spit to the south marked the mouth of the\nnoble river, with a low-lying island of silted sand in the centre, all\nshrouded and curtained by the spume of the breakers. A line of broken\nwater traced the dangerous bar, which in clear day and balmy weather has\ncracked the back of many a tall ship.\n\n\"There is a channel,\" said Hawtayne, \"which was shown to me by the\nPrince's own pilot. Mark yonder tree upon the bank, and see the tower\nwhich rises behind it. If these two be held in a line, even as we hold\nthem now, it may be done, though our ship draws two good ells more than\nwhen she put forth.\"\n\n\"God speed you, Master Hawtayne!\" cried Sir Oliver. \"Twice have we come\nscathless out of peril, and now for the third time I commend me to the\nblessed James of Compostella, to whom I vow----\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, old friend,\" whispered Sir Nigel. \"You are like to bring a\njudgment upon us with these vows, which no living man could accomplish.\nHave I not already heard you vow to eat two carp in one day, and now you\nwould venture upon a third?\"\n\n\"I pray you that you will order the Company to lie down,\" cried\nHawtayne, who had taken the tiller and was gazing ahead with a fixed\neye. \"In three minutes we shall either be lost or in safety.\"\n\nArchers and seamen lay flat upon the deck, waiting in stolid silence for\nwhatever fate might come. Hawtayne bent his weight upon the tiller, and\ncrouched to see under the bellying sail. Sir Oliver and Sir Nigel stood\nerect with hands crossed in front of the poop. Down swooped the great\ncog into the narrow channel which was the portal to safety. On either\nbow roared the shallow bar. Right ahead one small lane of black swirling\nwater marked the pilot's course. But true was the eye and firm the hand\nwhich guided. A dull scraping came from beneath, the vessel quivered\nand shook, at the waist, at the quarter, and behind sounded that grim\nroaring of the waters, and with a plunge the yellow cog was over the bar\nand speeding swiftly up the broad and tranquil estuary of the Gironde.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII. HOW SIR NIGEL LORING PUT A PATCH UPON HIS EYE.\n\n\nIt was on the morning of Friday, the eight-and-twentieth day of\nNovember, two days before the feast of St. Andrew, that the cog and her\ntwo prisoners, after a weary tacking up the Gironde and the Garonne,\ndropped anchor at last in front of the noble city of Bordeaux. With\nwonder and admiration, Alleyne, leaning over the bulwarks, gazed at the\nforest of masts, the swarm of boats darting hither and thither on the\nbosom of the broad curving stream, and the gray crescent-shaped city\nwhich stretched with many a tower and minaret along the western shore.\nNever had he in his quiet life seen so great a town, nor was there in\nthe whole of England, save London alone, one which might match it in\nsize or in wealth. Here came the merchandise of all the fair countries\nwhich are watered by the Garonne and the Dordogne--the cloths of the\nsouth, the skins of Guienne, the wines of the Medoc--to be borne away to\nHull, Exeter, Dartmouth, Bristol or Chester, in exchange for the wools\nand woolfels of England. Here too dwelt those famous smelters and\nwelders who had made the Bordeaux steel the most trusty upon earth, and\ncould give a temper to lance or to sword which might mean dear life to\nits owner. Alleyne could see the smoke of their forges reeking up in the\nclear morning air. The storm had died down now to a gentle breeze, which\nwafted to his ears the long-drawn stirring bugle-calls which sounded\nfrom the ancient ramparts.\n\n\"Hola, mon petit!\" said Aylward, coming up to where he stood. \"Thou art\na squire now, and like enough to win the golden spurs, while I am still\nthe master-bowman, and master-bowman I shall bide. I dare scarce wag\nmy tongue so freely with you as when we tramped together past Wilverley\nChase, else I might be your guide now, for indeed I know every house in\nBordeaux as a friar knows the beads on his rosary.\"\n\n\"Nay, Aylward,\" said Alleyne, laying his hand upon the sleeve of his\ncompanion's frayed jerkin, \"you cannot think me so thrall as to throw\naside an old friend because I have had some small share of good fortune.\nI take it unkind that you should have thought such evil of me.\"\n\n\"Nay, mon gar. 'Twas but a flight shot to see if the wind blew steady,\nthough I were a rogue to doubt it.\"\n\n\"Why, had I not met you, Aylward, at the Lynhurst inn, who can say where\nI had now been! Certes, I had not gone to Twynham Castle, nor become\nsquire to Sir Nigel, nor met----\" He paused abruptly and flushed to his\nhair, but the bowman was too busy with his own thoughts to notice his\nyoung companion's embarrassment.\n\n\"It was a good hostel, that of the 'Pied Merlin,'\" he remarked. \"By my\nten finger bones! when I hang bow on nail and change my brigandine for a\ntunic, I might do worse than take over the dame and her business.\"\n\n\"I thought,\" said Alleyne, \"that you were betrothed to some one at\nChristchurch.\"\n\n\"To three,\" Aylward answered moodily, \"to three. I fear I may not go\nback to Christchurch. I might chance to see hotter service in Hampshire\nthan I have ever done in Gascony. But mark you now yonder lofty turret\nin the centre, which stands back from the river and hath a broad banner\nupon the summit. See the rising sun flashes full upon it and sparkles\non the golden lions. 'Tis the royal banner of England, crossed by the\nprince's label. There he dwells in the Abbey of St. Andrew, where he\nhath kept his court these years back. Beside it is the minster of the\nsame saint, who hath the town under his very special care.\"\n\n\"And how of yon gray turret on the left?\"\n\n\"'Tis the fane of St. Michael, as that upon the right is of St. Remi.\nThere, too, above the poop of yonder nief, you see the towers of Saint\nCroix and of Pey Berland. Mark also the mighty ramparts which are\npierced by the three water-gates, and sixteen others to the landward\nside.\"\n\n\"And how is it, good Aylward, that there comes so much music from the\ntown? I seem to hear a hundred trumpets, all calling in chorus.\"\n\n\"It would be strange else, seeing that all the great lords of England\nand of Gascony are within the walls, and each would have his trumpeter\nblow as loud as his neighbor, lest it might be thought that his dignity\nhad been abated. Ma foi! they make as much louster as a Scotch army,\nwhere every man fills himself with girdle-cakes, and sits up all night\nto blow upon the toodle-pipe. See all along the banks how the pages\nwater the horses, and there beyond the town how they gallop them over\nthe plain! For every horse you see a belted knight hath herbergage in\nthe town, for, as I learn, the men-at-arms and archers have already gone\nforward to Dax.\"\n\n\"I trust, Aylward,\" said Sir Nigel, coming upon deck, \"that the men are\nready for the land. Go tell them that the boats will be for them within\nthe hour.\"\n\nThe archer raised his hand in salute, and hastened forward. In the\nmeantime Sir Oliver had followed his brother knight, and the two paced\nthe poop together, Sir Nigel in his plum-colored velvet suit with flat\ncap of the same, adorned in front with the Lady Loring's glove and girt\nround with a curling ostrich feather. The lusty knight, on the other\nhand, was clad in the very latest mode, with cote-hardie, doublet,\npourpoint, court-pie, and paltock of olive-green, picked out with\npink and jagged at the edges. A red chaperon or cap, with long hanging\ncornette, sat daintily on the back of his black-curled head, while his\ngold-hued shoes were twisted up _a la poulaine_, as though the toes\nwere shooting forth a tendril which might hope in time to entwine itself\naround his massive leg.\n\n\"Once more, Sir Oliver,\" said Sir Nigel, looking shorewards with\nsparkling eyes, \"do we find ourselves at the gate of honor, the door\nwhich hath so often led us to all that is knightly and worthy. There\nflies the prince's banner, and it would be well that we haste ashore and\npay our obeisance to him. The boats already swarm from the bank.\"\n\n\"There is a goodly hostel near the west gate, which is famed for the\nstewing of spiced pullets,\" remarked Sir Oliver. \"We might take the edge\nof our hunger off ere we seek the prince, for though his tables are\ngay with damask and silver he is no trencherman himself, and hath no\nsympathy for those who are his betters.\"\n\n\"His betters!\"\n\n\"His betters before the tranchoir, lad. Sniff not treason where none is\nmeant. I have seen him smile in his quiet way because I had looked for\nthe fourth time towards the carving squire. And indeed to watch\nhim dallying with a little gobbet of bread, or sipping his cup of\nthrice-watered wine, is enough to make a man feel shame at his own\nhunger. Yet war and glory, my good friend, though well enough in their\nway, will not serve to tighten such a belt as clasps my waist.\"\n\n\"How read you that coat which hangs over yonder galley, Alleyne?\" asked\nSir Nigel.\n\n\"Argent, a bend vert between cotises dancette gules.\"\n\n\"It is a northern coat. I have seen it in the train of the Percies. From\nthe shields, there is not one of these vessels which hath not knight or\nbaron aboard. I would mine eyes were better. How read you this upon the\nleft?\"\n\n\"Argent and azure, a barry wavy of six.\"\n\n\"Ha, it is the sign of the Wiltshire Stourtons! And there beyond I see\nthe red and silver of the Worsleys of Apuldercombe, who like myself are\nof Hampshire lineage. Close behind us is the moline cross of the gallant\nWilliam Molyneux, and beside it the bloody chevrons of the Norfork\nWoodhouses, with the amulets of the Musgraves of Westmoreland. By St.\nPaul! it would be a very strange thing if so noble a company were to\ngather without some notable deed of arms arising from it. And here is\nour boat, Sir Oliver, so it seems best to me that we should go to the\nabbey with our squires, leaving Master Hawtayne to have his own way in\nthe unloading.\"\n\nThe horses both of knights and squires were speedily lowered into a\nbroad lighter, and reached the shore almost as soon as their masters.\nSir Nigel bent his knee devoutly as he put foot on land, and taking a\nsmall black patch from his bosom he bound it tightly over his left eye.\n\n\"May the blessed George and the memory of my sweet lady-love raise high\nmy heart!\" quoth he. \"And as a token I vow that I will not take this\npatch from my eye until I have seen something of this country of Spain,\nand done such a small deed as it lies in me to do. And this I swear upon\nthe cross of my sword and upon the glove of my lady.\"\n\n\"In truth, you take me back twenty years, Nigel,\" quoth Sir Oliver, as\nthey mounted and rode slowly through the water-gate. \"After Cadsand,\nI deem that the French thought that we were an army of the blind, for\nthere was scarce a man who had not closed an eye for the greater love\nand honor of his lady. Yet it goes hard with you that you should darken\none side, when with both open you can scarce tell a horse from a mule.\nIn truth, friend, I think that you step over the line of reason in this\nmatter.\"\n\n\"Sir Oliver Buttesthorn,\" said the little knight shortly, \"I would have\nyou to understand that, blind as I am, I can yet see the path of honor\nvery clearly, and that that is the road upon which I do not crave\nanother man's guidance.\"\n\n\"By my soul,\" said Sir Oliver, \"you are as tart as verjuice this\nmorning! If you are bent upon a quarrel with me I must leave you to your\nhumor and drop into the 'Tete d'Or' here, for I marked a varlet pass\nthe door who bare a smoking dish, which had, methought, a most excellent\nsmell.\"\n\n\"Nenny, nenny,\" cried his comrade, laying his hand upon his knee; \"we\nhave known each other over long to fall out, Oliver, like two raw pages\nat their first epreuves. You must come with me first to the prince, and\nthen back to the hostel; though sure I am that it would grieve his heart\nthat any gentle cavalier should turn from his board to a common tavern.\nBut is not that my Lord Delewar who waves to us? Ha! my fair lord, God\nand Our Lady be with you! And there is Sir Robert Cheney. Good-morrow,\nRobert! I am right glad to see you.\"\n\nThe two knights walked their horses abreast, while Alleyne and Ford,\nwith John Norbury, who was squire to Sir Oliver, kept some paces behind\nthem, a spear's-length in front of Black Simon and of the Winchester\nguidon-bearer. Norbury, a lean, silent man, had been to those parts\nbefore, and sat his horse with a rigid neck; but the two young squires\ngazed eagerly to right or left, and plucked each other's sleeves to call\nattention to the many strange things on every side of them.\n\n\"See to the brave stalls!\" cried Alleyne. \"See to the noble armor set\nforth, and the costly taffeta--and oh, Ford, see to where the scrivener\nsits with the pigments and the ink-horns, and the rolls of sheepskin as\nwhite as the Beaulieu napery! Saw man ever the like before?\"\n\n\"Nay, man, there are finer stalls in Cheapside,\" answered Ford, whose\nfather had taken him to London on occasion of one of the Smithfield\njoustings. \"I have seen a silversmith's booth there which would serve to\nbuy either side of this street. But mark these houses, Alleyne, how they\nthrust forth upon the top. And see to the coats-of-arms at every window,\nand banner or pensil on the roof.\"\n\n\"And the churches!\" cried Alleyne. \"The Priory at Christchurch was a\nnoble pile, but it was cold and bare, methinks, by one of these, with\ntheir frettings, and their carvings, and their traceries, as though some\ngreat ivy-plant of stone had curled and wantoned over the walls.\"\n\n\"And hark to the speech of the folk!\" said Ford. \"Was ever such a\nhissing and clacking? I wonder that they have not wit to learn English\nnow that they have come under the English crown. By Richard of Hampole!\nthere are fair faces amongst them. See the wench with the brown whimple!\nOut on you, Alleyne, that you would rather gaze upon dead stone than on\nliving flesh!\"\n\nIt was little wonder that the richness and ornament, not only of church\nand of stall, but of every private house as well, should have impressed\nitself upon the young squires. The town was now at the height of its\nfortunes. Besides its trade and its armorers, other causes had combined\nto pour wealth into it. War, which had wrought evil upon so many fair\ncities around, had brought nought but good to this one. As her French\nsisters decayed she increased, for here, from north, and from east,\nand from south, came the plunder to be sold and the ransom money to be\nspent. Through all her sixteen landward gates there had set for many\nyears a double tide of empty-handed soldiers hurrying Francewards, and\nof enriched and laden bands who brought their spoils home. The prince's\ncourt, too, with its swarm of noble barons and wealthy knights, many of\nwhom, in imitation of their master, had brought their ladies and their\nchildren from England, all helped to swell the coffers of the burghers.\nNow, with this fresh influx of noblemen and cavaliers, food and lodging\nwere scarce to be had, and the prince was hurrying forward his forces to\nDax in Gascony to relieve the overcrowding of his capital.\n\nIn front of the minster and abbey of St. Andrew's was a large square\ncrowded with priests, soldiers, women, friars, and burghers, who made it\ntheir common centre for sight-seeing and gossip. Amid the knot of noisy\nand gesticulating townsfolk, many small parties of mounted knights and\nsquires threaded their way towards the prince's quarters, where the\nhuge iron-clamped doors were thrown back to show that he held audience\nwithin. Two-score archers stood about the gateway, and beat back from\ntime to time with their bow-staves the inquisitive and chattering crowd\nwho swarmed round the portal. Two knights in full armor, with lances\nraised and closed visors, sat their horses on either side, while in the\ncentre, with two pages to tend upon him, there stood a noble-faced man\nin flowing purple gown, who pricked off upon a sheet of parchment the\nstyle and title of each applicant, marshalling them in their due order,\nand giving to each the place and facility which his rank demanded. His\nlong white beard and searching eyes imparted to him an air of masterful\ndignity, which was increased by his tabardlike vesture and the heraldic\nbarret cap with triple plume which bespoke his office.\n\n\"It is Sir William de Pakington, the prince's own herald and scrivener,\"\nwhispered Sir Nigel, as they pulled up amid the line of knights who\nwaited admission. \"Ill fares it with the man who would venture to\ndeceive him. He hath by rote the name of every knight of France or of\nEngland; and all the tree of his family, with his kinships, coat-armor,\nmarriages, augmentations, abatements, and I know not what beside. We\nmay leave our horses here with the varlets, and push forward with our\nsquires.\"\n\nFollowing Sir Nigel's counsel, they pressed on upon foot until they were\nclose to the prince's secretary, who was in high debate with a young and\nfoppish knight, who was bent upon making his way past him.\n\n\"Mackworth!\" said the king-at-arms. \"It is in my mind, young sir, that\nyou have not been presented before.\"\n\n\"Nay, it is but a day since I set foot in Bordeaux, but I feared lest\nthe prince should think it strange that I had not waited upon him.\"\n\n\"The prince hath other things to think upon,\" quoth Sir William de\nPakington; \"but if you be a Mackworth you must be a Mackworth of\nNormanton, and indeed I see now that your coat is sable and ermine.\"\n\n\"I am a Mackworth of Normanton,\" the other answered, with some\nuneasiness of manner.\n\n\"Then you must be Sir Stephen Mackworth, for I learn that when old\nSir Guy died he came in for the arms and the name, the war-cry and the\nprofit.\"\n\n\"Sir Stephen is my elder brother, and I am Arthur, the second son,\" said\nthe youth.\n\n\"In sooth and in sooth!\" cried the king-at-arms with scornful eyes. \"And\npray, sir second son, where is the cadency mark which should mark your\nrank. Dare you to wear your brother's coat without the crescent which\nshould stamp you as his cadet. Away to your lodgings, and come not\nnigh the prince until the armorer hath placed the true charge upon your\nshield.\" As the youth withdrew in confusion, Sir William's keen eye\nsingled out the five red roses from amid the overlapping shields and\ncloud of pennons which faced him.\n\n\"Ha!\" he cried, \"there are charges here which are above counterfeit.\nThe roses of Loring and the boar's head of Buttesthorn may stand back\nin peace, but by my faith! they are not to be held back in war. Welcome,\nSir Oliver, Sir Nigel! Chandos will be glad to his very heart-roots when\nhe sees you. This way, my fair sirs. Your squires are doubtless worthy\nthe fame of their masters. Down this passage, Sir Oliver! Edricson! Ha!\none of the old strain of Hampshire Edricsons, I doubt not. And Ford,\nthey are of a south Saxon stock, and of good repute. There are Norburys\nin Cheshire and in Wiltshire, and also, as I have heard, upon the\nborders. So, my fair sirs, and I shall see that you are shortly\nadmitted.\"\n\nHe had finished his professional commentary by flinging open a folding\ndoor, and ushering the party into a broad hall, which was filled with\na great number of people who were waiting, like themselves, for an\naudience. The room was very spacious, lighted on one side by three\narched and mullioned windows, while opposite was a huge fireplace in\nwhich a pile of faggots was blazing merrily. Many of the company had\ncrowded round the flames, for the weather was bitterly cold; but the\ntwo knights seated themselves upon a bancal, with their squires standing\nbehind them. Looking down the room, Alleyne marked that both floor and\nceiling were of the richest oak, the latter spanned by twelve arching\nbeams, which were adorned at either end by the lilies and the lions of\nthe royal arms. On the further side was a small door, on each side of\nwhich stood men-at-arms. From time to time an elderly man in black with\nrounded shoulders and a long white wand in his hand came softly forth\nfrom this inner room, and beckoned to one or other of the company, who\ndoffed cap and followed him.\n\nThe two knights were deep in talk, when Alleyne became aware of a\nremarkable individual who was walking round the room in their direction.\nAs he passed each knot of cavaliers every head turned to look after\nhim, and it was evident, from the bows and respectful salutations on\nall sides, that the interest which he excited was not due merely to his\nstrange personal appearance. He was tall and straight as a lance, though\nof a great age, for his hair, which curled from under his velvet cap of\nmaintenance, was as white as the new-fallen snow. Yet, from the swing of\nhis stride and the spring of his step, it was clear that he had not yet\nlost the fire and activity of his youth. His fierce hawk-like face was\nclean shaven like that of a priest, save for a long thin wisp of white\nmoustache which drooped down half way to his shoulder. That he had\nbeen handsome might be easily judged from his high aquiline nose and\nclear-cut chin; but his features had been so distorted by the seams and\nscars of old wounds, and by the loss of one eye which had been torn\nfrom the socket, that there was little left to remind one of the dashing\nyoung knight who had been fifty years ago the fairest as well as the\nboldest of the English chivalry. Yet what knight was there in that hall\nof St. Andrew's who would not have gladly laid down youth, beauty, and\nall that he possessed to win the fame of this man? For who could be\nnamed with Chandos, the stainless knight, the wise councillor, the\nvaliant warrior, the hero of Crecy, of Winchelsea, of Poictiers, of\nAuray, and of as many other battles as there were years to his life?\n\n\"Ha, my little heart of gold!\" he cried, darting forward suddenly and\nthrowing his arms round Sir Nigel. \"I heard that you were here and have\nbeen seeking you.\"\n\n\"My fair and dear lord,\" said the knight, returning the warrior's\nembrace, \"I have indeed come back to you, for where else shall I go that\nI may learn to be a gentle and a hardy knight?\"\n\n\"By my troth!\" said Chandos with a smile, \"it is very fitting that we\nshould be companions, Nigel, for since you have tied up one of your\neyes, and I have had the mischance to lose one of mine, we have but a\npair between us. Ah, Sir Oliver! you were on the blind side of me and I\nsaw you not. A wise woman hath made prophecy that this blind side will\none day be the death of me. We shall go in to the prince anon; but in\ntruth he hath much upon his hands, for what with Pedro, and the King of\nMajorca, and the King of Navarre, who is no two days of the same mind,\nand the Gascon barons who are all chaffering for terms like so many\nhucksters, he hath an uneasy part to play. But how left you the Lady\nLoring?\"\n\n\"She was well, my fair lord, and sent her service and greetings to you.\"\n\n\"I am ever her knight and slave. And your journey, I trust that it was\npleasant?\"\n\n\"As heart could wish. We had sight of two rover galleys, and even came\nto have some slight bickering with them.\"\n\n\"Ever in luck's way, Nigel!\" quoth Sir John. \"We must hear the tale\nanon. But I deem it best that ye should leave your squires and come with\nme, for, howsoe'er pressed the prince may be, I am very sure that he\nwould be loth to keep two old comrades-in-arms upon the further side of\nthe door. Follow close behind me, and I will forestall old Sir William,\nthough I can scarce promise to roll forth your style and rank as is\nhis wont.\" So saying, he led the way to the inner chamber, the two\ncompanions treading close at his heels, and nodding to right and left as\nthey caught sight of familiar faces among the crowd.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX. HOW THERE WAS STIR AT THE ABBEY OF ST. ANDREW'S.\n\n\nThe prince's reception-room, although of no great size, was fitted up\nwith all the state and luxury which the fame and power of its owner\ndemanded. A high dais at the further end was roofed in by a broad canopy\nof scarlet velvet spangled with silver fleurs-de-lis, and supported at\neither corner by silver rods. This was approached by four steps carpeted\nwith the same material, while all round were scattered rich cushions,\noriental mats and costly rugs of fur. The choicest tapestries which the\nlooms of Arras could furnish draped the walls, whereon the battles of\nJudas Maccabaeus were set forth, with the Jewish warriors in plate of\nproof, with crest and lance and banderole, as the naive artists of the\nday were wont to depict them. A few rich settles and bancals, choicely\ncarved and decorated with glazed leather hangings of the sort termed _or\nbasane_, completed the furniture of the apartment, save that at one side\nof the dais there stood a lofty perch, upon which a cast of three solemn\nPrussian gerfalcons sat, hooded and jesseled, as silent and motionless\nas the royal fowler who stood beside them.\n\nIn the centre of the dais were two very high chairs with dorserets,\nwhich arched forwards over the heads of the occupants, the whole covered\nwith light-blue silk thickly powdered with golden stars. On that to the\nright sat a very tall and well formed man with red hair, a livid face,\nand a cold blue eye, which had in it something peculiarly sinister and\nmenacing. He lounged back in a careless position, and yawned repeatedly\nas though heartily weary of the proceedings, stooping from time to time\nto fondle a shaggy Spanish greyhound which lay stretched at his feet. On\nthe other throne there was perched bolt upright, with prim demeanor, as\nthough he felt himself to be upon his good behavior, a little, round,\npippin faced person, who smiled and bobbed to every one whose eye he\nchanced to meet. Between and a little in front of them on a humble\ncharette or stool, sat a slim, dark young man, whose quiet attire and\nmodest manner would scarce proclaim him to be the most noted prince in\nEurope. A jupon of dark blue cloth, tagged with buckles and pendants of\ngold, seemed but a sombre and plain attire amidst the wealth of silk and\nermine and gilt tissue of fustian with which he was surrounded. He sat\nwith his two hands clasped round his knee, his head slightly bent,\nand an expression of impatience and of trouble upon his clear,\nwell-chiselled features. Behind the thrones there stood two men in\npurple gowns, with ascetic, clean-shaven faces, and half a dozen other\nhigh dignitaries and office-holders of Aquitaine. Below on either side\nof the steps were forty or fifty barons, knights, and courtiers, ranged\nin a triple row to the right and the left, with a clear passage in the\ncentre.\n\n\"There sits the prince,\" whispered Sir John Chandos, as they entered.\n\"He on the right is Pedro, whom we are about to put upon the Spanish\nthrone. The other is Don James, whom we purpose with the aid of God to\nhelp to his throne in Majorca. Now follow me, and take it not to heart\nif he be a little short in his speech, for indeed his mind is full of\nmany very weighty concerns.\"\n\nThe prince, however, had already observed their entrance, and, springing\nto his feet, he had advanced with a winning smile and the light of\nwelcome in his eyes.\n\n\"We do not need your good offices as herald here, Sir John,\" said he in\na low but clear voice; \"these valiant knights are very well known to me.\nWelcome to Aquitaine, Sir Nigel Loring and Sir Oliver Buttesthorn. Nay,\nkeep your knee for my sweet father at Windsor. I would have your hands,\nmy friends. We are like to give you some work to do ere you see the\ndowns of Hampshire once more. Know you aught of Spain, Sir Oliver?\"\n\n\"Nought, my sire, save that I have heard men say that there is a dish\nnamed an olla which is prepared there, though I have never been clear in\nmy mind as to whether it was but a ragout such as is to be found in the\nsouth, or whether there is some seasoning such as fennel or garlic which\nis peculiar to Spain.\"\n\n\"Your doubts, Sir Oliver, shall soon be resolved,\" answered the prince,\nlaughing heartily, as did many of the barons who surrounded them. \"His\nmajesty here will doubtless order that you have this dish hotly seasoned\nwhen we are all safely in Castile.\"\n\n\"I will have a hotly seasoned dish for some folk I know of,\" answered\nDon Pedro with a cold smile.\n\n\"But my friend Sir Oliver can fight right hardily without either bite or\nsup,\" remarked the prince. \"Did I not see him at Poictiers, when for two\ndays we had not more than a crust of bread and a cup of foul water, yet\ncarrying himself most valiantly. With my own eyes I saw him in the rout\nsweep the head from a knight of Picardy with one blow of his sword.\"\n\n\"The rogue got between me and the nearest French victual wain,\" muttered\nSir Oliver, amid a fresh titter from those who were near enough to catch\nhis words.\n\n\"How many have you in your train?\" asked the prince, assuming a graver\nmien.\n\n\"I have forty men-at-arms, sire,\" said Sir Oliver.\n\n\"And I have one hundred archers and a score of lancers, but there are\ntwo hundred men who wait for me on this side of the water upon the\nborders of Navarre.\"\n\n\"And who are they, Sir Nigel?\"\n\n\"They are a free company, sire, and they are called the White Company.\"\n\nTo the astonishment of the knight, his words provoked a burst of\nmerriment from the barons round, in which the two kings and the prince\nwere fain to join. Sir Nigel blinked mildly from one to the other, until\nat last perceiving a stout black-bearded knight at his elbow, whose\nlaugh rang somewhat louder than the others, he touched him lightly upon\nthe sleeve.\n\n\"Perchance, my fair sir,\" he whispered, \"there is some small vow of\nwhich I may relieve you. Might we not have some honorable debate upon\nthe matter. Your gentle courtesy may perhaps grant me an exchange of\nthrusts.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Sir Nigel,\" cried the prince, \"fasten not the offence upon\nSir Robert Briquet, for we are one and all bogged in the same mire.\nTruth to say, our ears have just been vexed by the doings of the same\ncompany, and I have even now made vow to hang the man who held the rank\nof captain over it. I little thought to find him among the bravest of my\nown chosen chieftains. But the vow is now nought, for, as you have\nnever seen your company, it would be a fool's act to blame you for their\ndoings.\"\n\n\"My liege,\" said Sir Nigel, \"it is a very small matter that I should be\nhanged, albeit the manner of death is somewhat more ignoble than I had\nhoped for. On the other hand, it would be a very grievous thing that\nyou, the Prince of England and the flower of knighthood, should make a\nvow, whether in ignorance or no, and fail to bring it to fulfilment.\"\n\n\"Vex not your mind on that,\" the prince answered, smiling. \"We have had\na citizen from Montauban here this very day, who told us such a tale of\nsack and murder and pillage that it moved our blood; but our wrath was\nturned upon the man who was in authority over them.\"\n\n\"My dear and honored master,\" cried Nigel, in great anxiety, \"I fear me\nmuch that in your gentleness of heart you are straining this vow which\nyou have taken. If there be so much as a shadow of a doubt as to the\nform of it, it were a thousand times best----\"\n\n\"Peace! peace!\" cried the prince impatiently. \"I am very well able to\nlook to my own vows and their performance. We hope to see you both\nin the banquet-hall anon. Meanwhile you will attend upon us with our\ntrain.\" He bowed, and Chandos, plucking Sir Oliver by the sleeve, led\nthem both away to the back of the press of courtiers.\n\n\"Why, little coz,\" he whispered, \"you are very eager to have your neck\nin a noose. By my soul! had you asked as much from our new ally Don\nPedro, he had not baulked you. Between friends, there is overmuch of\nthe hangman in him, and too little of the prince. But indeed this\nWhite Company is a rough band, and may take some handling ere you find\nyourself safe in your captaincy.\"\n\n\"I doubt not, with the help of St. Paul, that I shall bring them to some\norder,\" Sir Nigel answered. \"But there are many faces here which are new\nto me, though others have been before me since first I waited upon my\ndear master, Sir Walter. I pray you to tell me, Sir John, who are these\npriests upon the dais?\"\n\n\"The one is the Archbishop of Bordeaux, Nigel, and the other the Bishop\nof Agen.\"\n\n\"And the dark knight with gray-streaked beard? By my troth, he seems to\nbe a man of much wisdom and valor.\"\n\n\"He is Sir William Felton, who, with my unworthy self, is the chief\ncounsellor of the prince, he being high steward and I the seneschal of\nAquitaine.\"\n\n\"And the knights upon the right, beside Don Pedro?\"\n\n\"They are cavaliers of Spain who have followed him in his exile. The one\nat his elbow is Fernando de Castro, who is as brave and true a man as\nheart could wish. In front to the right are the Gascon lords. You may\nwell tell them by their clouded brows, for there hath been some ill-will\nof late betwixt the prince and them. The tall and burly man is the\nCaptal de Buch, whom I doubt not that you know, for a braver knight\nnever laid lance in rest. That heavy-faced cavalier who plucks his\nskirts and whispers in his ear is Lord Oliver de Clisson, known also as\nthe butcher. He it is who stirs up strife, and forever blows the dying\nembers into flame. The man with the mole upon his cheek is the Lord\nPommers, and his two brothers stand behind him, with the Lord Lesparre,\nLord de Rosem, Lord de Mucident, Sir Perducas d'Albret, the Souldich de\nla Trane, and others. Further back are knights from Quercy, Limousin,\nSaintonge, Poitou, and Aquitaine, with the valiant Sir Guiscard d'Angle.\nThat is he in the rose-colored doublet with the ermine.\"\n\n\"And the knights upon this side?\"\n\n\"They are all Englishmen, some of the household and others who like\nyourself, are captains of companies. There is Lord Neville, Sir Stephen\nCossington, and Sir Matthew Gourney, with Sir Walter Huet, Sir Thomas\nBanaster, and Sir Thomas Felton, who is the brother of the high steward.\nMark well the man with the high nose and flaxen beard who hath placed\nhis hand upon the shoulder of the dark hard-faced cavalier in the\nrust-stained jupon.\"\n\n\"Aye, by St. Paul!\" observed Sir Nigel, \"they both bear the print of\ntheir armor upon their cotes-hardies. Methinks they are men who breathe\nfreer in a camp than a court.\"\n\n\"There are many of us who do that, Nigel,\" said Chandos, \"and the head\nof the court is, I dare warrant, among them. But of these two men the\none is Sir Hugh Calverley, and the other is Sir Robert Knolles.\"\n\nSir Nigel and Sir Oliver craned their necks to have the clearer view of\nthese famous warriors, the one a chosen leader of free companies, the\nother a man who by his fierce valor and energy had raised himself from\nthe lowest ranks until he was second only to Chandos himself in the\nesteem of the army.\n\n\"He hath no light hand in war, hath Sir Robert,\" said Chandos. \"If he\npasses through a country you may tell it for some years to come. I have\nheard that in the north it is still the use to call a house which hath\nbut the two gable ends left, without walls or roof, a Knolles' mitre.\"\n\n\"I have often heard of him,\" said Nigel, \"and I have hoped to be so far\nhonored as to run a course with him. But hark, Sir John, what is amiss\nwith the prince?\"\n\nWhilst Chandos had been conversing with the two knights a continuous\nstream of suitors had been ushered in, adventurers seeking to sell their\nswords and merchants clamoring over some grievance, a ship detained\nfor the carriage of troops, or a tun of sweet wine which had the bottom\nknocked out by a troop of thirsty archers. A few words from the prince\ndisposed of each case, and, if the applicant liked not the judgment, a\nquick glance from the prince's dark eyes sent him to the door with the\ngrievance all gone out of him. The younger ruler had sat listlessly upon\nhis stool with the two puppet monarchs enthroned behind him, but of a\nsudden a dark shadow passed over his face, and he sprang to his feet in\none of those gusts of passion which were the single blot upon his noble\nand generous character.\n\n\"How now, Don Martin de la Carra?\" he cried. \"How now, sirrah? What\nmessage do you bring to us from our brother of Navarre?\"\n\nThe new-comer to whom this abrupt query had been addressed was a tall\nand exceedingly handsome cavalier who had just been ushered into the\napartment. His swarthy cheek and raven black hair spoke of the fiery\nsouth, and he wore his long black cloak swathed across his chest and\nover his shoulders in a graceful sweeping fashion, which was neither\nEnglish nor French. With stately steps and many profound bows, he\nadvanced to the foot of the dais before replying to the prince's\nquestion.\n\n\"My powerful and illustrious master,\" he began, \"Charles, King of\nNavarre, Earl of Evreux, Count of Champagne, who also writeth himself\nOverlord of Bearn, hereby sends his love and greetings to his dear\ncousin Edward, the Prince of Wales, Governor of Aquitaine, Grand\nCommander of----\"\n\n\"Tush! tush! Don Martin!\" interrupted the prince, who had been beating\nthe ground with his foot impatiently during this stately preamble. \"We\nalready know our cousin's titles and style, and, certes, we know our\nown. To the point, man, and at once. Are the passes open to us, or does\nyour master go back from his word pledged to me at Libourne no later\nthan last Michaelmas?\"\n\n\"It would ill become my gracious master, sire, to go back from\npromise given. He does but ask some delay and certain conditions and\nhostages----\"\n\n\"Conditions! Hostages! Is he speaking to the Prince of England, or is it\nto the bourgeois provost of some half-captured town! Conditions, quotha?\nHe may find much to mend in his own condition ere long. The passes are,\nthen, closed to us?\"\n\n\"Nay, sire----\"\n\n\"They are open, then?\"\n\n\"Nay, sire, if you would but----\"\n\n\"Enough, enough, Don Martin,\" cried the prince. \"It is a sorry sight to\nsee so true a knight pleading in so false a cause. We know the doings of\nour cousin Charles. We know that while with the right hand he takes our\nfifty thousand crowns for the holding of the passes open, he hath his\nleft outstretched to Henry of Trastamare, or to the King of France, all\nready to take as many more for the keeping them closed. I know our good\nCharles, and, by my blessed name-saint the Confessor, he shall learn\nthat I know him. He sets his kingdom up to the best bidder, like some\nscullion farrier selling a glandered horse. He is----\"\n\n\"My lord,\" cried Don Martin, \"I cannot stand there to hear such words\nof my master. Did they come from other lips, I should know better how to\nanswer them.\"\n\nDon Pedro frowned and curled his lip, but the prince smiled and nodded\nhis approbation.\n\n\"Your bearing and your words, Don Martin, are such I should have looked\nfor in you,\" he remarked. \"You will tell the king, your master, that he\nhath been paid his price and that if he holds to his promise he hath my\nword for it that no scath shall come to his people, nor to their houses\nor gear. If, however, we have not his leave, I shall come close at the\nheels of this message without his leave, and bearing a key with me\nwhich shall open all that he may close.\" He stooped and whispered to Sir\nRobert Knolles and Sir Huge Calverley, who smiled as men well pleased,\nand hastened from the room.\n\n\"Our cousin Charles has had experience of our friendship,\" the prince\ncontinued, \"and now, by the Saints! he shall feel a touch of our\ndispleasure. I send now a message to our cousin Charles which his whole\nkingdom may read. Let him take heed lest worse befall him. Where is my\nLord Chandos? Ha, Sir John, I commend this worthy knight to your care.\nYou will see that he hath refection, and such a purse of gold as may\ndefray his charges, for indeed it is great honor to any court to have\nwithin it so noble and gentle a cavalier. How say you, sire?\" he\nasked, turning to the Spanish refugee, while the herald of Navarre was\nconducted from the chamber by the old warrior.\n\n\"It is not our custom in Spain to reward pertness in a messenger,\" Don\nPedro answered, patting the head of his greyhound. \"Yet we have all\nheard the lengths to which your royal generosity runs.\"\n\n\"In sooth, yes,\" cried the King of Majorca.\n\n\"Who should know it better than we?\" said Don Pedro bitterly, \"since we\nhave had to fly to you in our trouble as to the natural protector of all\nwho are weak.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, as brothers to a brother,\" cried the prince, with sparkling\neyes. \"We doubt not, with the help of God, to see you very soon restored\nto those thrones from which you have been so traitorously thrust.\"\n\n\"When that happy day comes,\" said Pedro, \"then Spain shall be to you as\nAquitaine, and, be your project what it may, you may ever count on every\ntroop and every ship over which flies the banner of Castile.\"\n\n\"And,\" added the other, \"upon every aid which the wealth and power of\nMajorca can bestow.\"\n\n\"Touching the hundred thousand crowns in which I stand your debtor,\"\ncontinued Pedro carelessly, \"it can no doubt----\"\n\n\"Not a word, sire, not a word!\" cried the prince. \"It is not now when\nyou are in grief that I would vex your mind with such base and sordid\nmatters. I have said once and forever that I am yours with every\nbow-string of my army and every florin in my coffers.\"\n\n\"Ah! here is indeed a mirror of chivalry,\" said Don Pedro. \"I think,\nSir Fernando, since the prince's bounty is stretched so far, that we\nmay make further use of his gracious goodness to the extent of fifty\nthousand crowns. Good Sir William Felton, here, will doubtless settle\nthe matter with you.\"\n\nThe stout old English counsellor looked somewhat blank at this prompt\nacceptance of his master's bounty.\n\n\"If it please you, sire,\" he said, \"the public funds are at their\nlowest, seeing that I have paid twelve thousand men of the companies,\nand the new taxes--the hearth-tax and the wine-tax--not yet come in. If\nyou could wait until the promised help from England comes----\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, my sweet cousin,\" cried Don Pedro. \"Had we known that your\nown coffers were so low, or that this sorry sum could have weighed one\nway or the other, we had been loth indeed----\"\n\n\"Enough, sire, enough!\" said the prince, flushing with vexation. \"If\nthe public funds be, indeed, so backward, Sir William, there is still,\nI trust, my own private credit, which hath never been drawn upon for my\nown uses, but is now ready in the cause of a friend in adversity. Go,\nraise this money upon our own jewels, if nought else may serve, and see\nthat it be paid over to Don Fernando.\"\n\n\"In security I offer----\" cried Don Pedro.\n\n\"Tush! tush!\" said the prince. \"I am not a Lombard, sire. Your kingly\npledge is my security, without bond or seal. But I have tidings for you,\nmy lords and lieges, that our brother of Lancaster is on his way for our\ncapital with four hundred lances and as many archers to aid us in our\nventure. When he hath come, and when our fair consort is recovered in\nher health, which I trust by the grace of God may be ere many weeks be\npast, we shall then join the army at Dax, and set our banners to the\nbreeze once more.\"\n\nA buzz of joy at the prospect of immediate action rose up from the group\nof warriors. The prince smiled at the martial ardor which shone upon\nevery face around him.\n\n\"It will hearten you to know,\" he continued, \"that I have sure advices\nthat this Henry is a very valiant leader, and that he has it in his\npower to make such a stand against us as promises to give us much honor\nand pleasure. Of his own people he hath brought together, as I learn,\nsome fifty thousand, with twelve thousand of the French free companies,\nwho are, as you know very valiant and expert men-at-arms. It is certain\nalso, that the brave and worthy Bertrand de Guesclin hath ridden into\nFrance to the Duke of Anjou, and purposes to take back with him great\nlevies from Picardy and Brittany. We hold Bertrand in high esteem, for\nhe has oft before been at great pains to furnish us with an honorable\nencounter. What think you of it, my worthy Captal? He took you at\nCocherel, and, by my soul! you will have the chance now to pay that\nscore.\"\n\nThe Gascon warrior winced a little at the allusion, nor were his\ncountrymen around him better pleased, for on the only occasion when they\nhad encountered the arms of France without English aid they had met with\na heavy defeat.\n\n\"There are some who say, sire,\" said the burly De Clisson, \"that the\nscore is already overpaid, for that without Gascon help Bertrand had not\nbeen taken at Auray, nor had King John been overborne at Poictiers.\"\n\n\"By heaven! but this is too much,\" cried an English nobleman. \"Methinks\nthat Gascony is too small a cock to crow so lustily.\"\n\n\"The smaller cock, my Lord Audley, may have the longer spur,\" remarked\nthe Captal de Buch.\n\n\"May have its comb clipped if it make over-much noise,\" broke in an\nEnglishman.\n\n\"By our Lady of Rocamadour!\" cried the Lord of Mucident, \"this is more\nthan I can abide. Sir John Charnell, you shall answer to me for those\nwords!\"\n\n\"Freely, my lord, and when you will,\" returned the Englishman\ncarelessly.\n\n\"My Lord de Clisson,\" cried Lord Audley, \"you look somewhat fixedly in\nmy direction. By God's soul! I should be right glad to go further into\nthe matter with you.\"\n\n\"And you, my Lord of Pommers,\" said Sir Nigel, pushing his way to the\nfront, \"it is in my mind that we might break a lance in gentle and\nhonorable debate over the question.\"\n\nFor a moment a dozen challenges flashed backwards and forwards at this\nsudden bursting of the cloud which had lowered so long between the\nknights of the two nations. Furious and gesticulating the Gascons, white\nand cold and sneering the English, while the prince with a half smile\nglanced from one party to the other, like a man who loved to dwell upon\na fiery scene, and yet dreaded least the mischief go so far that he\nmight find it beyond his control.\n\n\"Friends, friends!\" he cried at last, \"this quarrel must go no further.\nThe man shall answer to me, be he Gascon or English, who carries it\nbeyond this room. I have overmuch need for your swords that you should\nturn them upon each other. Sir John Charnell, Lord Audley, you do not\ndoubt the courage of our friends of Gascony?\"\n\n\"Not I, sire,\" Lord Audley answered. \"I have seen them fight too often\nnot to know that they are very hardy and valiant gentlemen.\"\n\n\"And so say I,\" quoth the other Englishman; \"but, certes, there is no\nfear of our forgetting it while they have a tongue in their heads.\"\n\n\"Nay, Sir John,\" said the prince reprovingly, \"all peoples have their\nown use and customs. There are some who might call us cold and dull and\nsilent. But you hear, my lords of Gascony, that these gentlemen had no\nthought to throw a slur upon your honor or your valor, so let all anger\nfade from your mind. Clisson, Captal, De Pommers, I have your word?\"\n\n\"We are your subjects, sire,\" said the Gascon barons, though with no\nvery good grace. \"Your words are our law.\"\n\n\"Then shall we bury all cause of unkindness in a flagon of Malvoisie,\"\nsaid the prince, cheerily. \"Ho, there! the doors of the banquet-hall!\nI have been over long from my sweet spouse but I shall be back with you\nanon. Let the sewers serve and the minstrels play, while we drain a\ncup to the brave days that are before us in the south!\" He turned away,\naccompanied by the two monarchs, while the rest of the company, with\nmany a compressed lip and menacing eye, filed slowly through the\nside-door to the great chamber in which the royal tables were set forth.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX. HOW ALLEYNE WON HIS PLACE IN AN HONORABLE GUILD.\n\n\nWhilst the prince's council was sitting, Alleyne and Ford had remained\nin the outer hall, where they were soon surrounded by a noisy group of\nyoung Englishmen of their own rank, all eager to hear the latest news\nfrom England.\n\n\"How is it with the old man at Windsor?\" asked one.\n\n\"And how with the good Queen Philippa?\"\n\n\"And how with Dame Alice Perrers?\" cried a third.\n\n\"The devil take your tongue, Wat!\" shouted a tall young man, seizing\nthe last speaker by the collar and giving him an admonitory shake. \"The\nprince would take your head off for those words.\"\n\n\"By God's coif! Wat would miss it but little,\" said another. \"It is as\nempty as a beggar's wallet.\"\n\n\"As empty as an English squire, coz,\" cried the first speaker. \"What a\ndevil has become of the maitre-des-tables and his sewers? They have not\nput forth the trestles yet.\"\n\n\"Mon Dieu! if a man could eat himself into knighthood, Humphrey, you\nhad been a banneret at the least,\" observed another, amid a burst of\nlaughter.\n\n\"And if you could drink yourself in, old leather-head, you had been\nfirst baron of the realm,\" cried the aggrieved Humphrey. \"But how of\nEngland, my lads of Loring?\"\n\n\"I take it,\" said Ford, \"that it is much as it was when you were there\nlast, save that perchance there is a little less noise there.\"\n\n\"And why less noise, young Solomon?\"\n\n\"Ah, that is for your wit to discover.\"\n\n\"Pardieu! here is a paladin come over, with the Hampshire mud still\nsticking to his shoes. He means that the noise is less for our being out\nof the country.\"\n\n\"They are very quick in these parts,\" said Ford, turning to Alleyne.\n\n\"How are we to take this, sir?\" asked the ruffling squire.\n\n\"You may take it as it comes,\" said Ford carelessly.\n\n\"Here is pertness!\" cried the other.\n\n\"Sir, I honor your truthfulness,\" said Ford.\n\n\"Stint it, Humphrey,\" said the tall squire, with a burst of laughter.\n\"You will have little credit from this gentleman, I perceive. Tongues\nare sharp in Hampshire, sir.\"\n\n\"And swords?\"\n\n\"Hum! we may prove that. In two days' time is the vepres du tournoi,\nwhen we may see if your lance is as quick as your wit.\"\n\n\"All very well, Roger Harcomb,\" cried a burly, bull-necked young man,\nwhose square shoulders and massive limbs told of exceptional personal\nstrength. \"You pass too lightly over the matter. We are not to be so\neasily overcrowed. The Lord Loring hath given his proofs; but we know\nnothing of his squires, save that one of them hath a railing tongue.\nAnd how of you, young sir?\" bringing his heavy hand down on Alleyne's\nshoulder.\n\n\"And what of me, young sir?\"\n\n\"Ma foi! this is my lady's page come over. Your cheek will be browner\nand your hand harder ere you see your mother again.\"\n\n\"If my hand is not hard, it is ready.\"\n\n\"Ready? Ready for what? For the hem of my lady's train?\"\n\n\"Ready to chastise insolence, sir,\" cried Alleyne with flashing eyes.\n\n\"Sweet little coz!\" answered the burly squire. \"Such a dainty color!\nSuch a mellow voice! Eyes of a bashful maid, and hair like a three\nyears' babe! Voila!\" He passed his thick fingers roughly through the\nyouth's crisp golden curls.\n\n\"You seek to force a quarrel, sir,\" said the young man, white with\nanger.\n\n\"And what then?\"\n\n\"Why, you do it like a country boor, and not like a gentle squire. Hast\nbeen ill bred and as ill taught. I serve a master who could show you how\nsuch things should be done.\"\n\n\"And how would he do it, O pink of squires?\"\n\n\"He would neither be loud nor would he be unmannerly, but rather more\ngentle than is his wont. He would say, 'Sir, I should take it as an\nhonor to do some small deed of arms against you, not for mine own glory\nor advancement, but rather for the fame of my lady and for the upholding\nof chivalry.' Then he would draw his glove, thus, and throw it on the\nground; or, if he had cause to think that he had to deal with a churl,\nhe might throw it in his face--as I do now!\"\n\nA buzz of excitement went up from the knot of squires as Alleyne, his\ngentle nature turned by this causeless attack into fiery resolution,\ndashed his glove with all his strength into the sneering face of his\nantagonist. From all parts of the hall squires and pages came running,\nuntil a dense, swaying crowd surrounded the disputants.\n\n\"Your life for this!\" said the bully, with a face which was distorted\nwith rage.\n\n\"If you can take it,\" returned Alleyne.\n\n\"Good lad!\" whispered Ford. \"Stick to it close as wax.\"\n\n\"I shall see justice,\" cried Norbury, Sir Oliver's silent attendant.\n\n\"You brought it upon yourself, John Tranter,\" said the tall squire,\nwho had been addressed as Roger Harcomb. \"You must ever plague the\nnew-comers. But it were shame if this went further. The lad hath shown a\nproper spirit.\"\n\n\"But a blow! a blow!\" cried several of the older squires. \"There must be\na finish to this.\"\n\n\"Nay; Tranter first laid hand upon his head,\" said Harcomb. \"How say\nyou, Tranter? The matter may rest where it stands?\"\n\n\"My name is known in these parts,\" said Tranter, proudly, \"I can let\npass what might leave a stain upon another. Let him pick up his glove\nand say that he has done amiss.\"\n\n\"I would see him in the claws of the devil first,\" whispered Ford.\n\n\"You hear, young sir?\" said the peacemaker. \"Our friend will overlook\nthe matter if you do but say that you have acted in heat and haste.\"\n\n\"I cannot say that,\" answered Alleyne.\n\n\"It is our custom, young sir, when new squires come amongst us from\nEngland, to test them in some such way. Bethink you that if a man have\na destrier or a new lance he will ever try it in time of peace, lest in\ndays of need it may fail him. How much more then is it proper to test\nthose who are our comrades in arms.\"\n\n\"I would draw out if it may honorably be done,\" murmured Norbury\nin Alleyne's ear. \"The man is a noted swordsman and far above your\nstrength.\"\n\nEdricson came, however, of that sturdy Saxon blood which is very slowly\nheated, but once up not easily to be cooled. The hint of danger which\nNorbury threw out was the one thing needed to harden his resolution.\n\n\"I came here at the back of my master,\" he said, \"and I looked on every\nman here as an Englishman and a friend. This gentleman hath shown me a\nrough welcome, and if I have answered him in the same spirit he has but\nhimself to thank. I will pick the glove up; but, certes, I shall abide\nwhat I have done unless he first crave my pardon for what he hath said\nand done.\"\n\nTranter shrugged his shoulders. \"You have done what you could to save\nhim, Harcomb,\" said he. \"We had best settle at once.\"\n\n\"So say I,\" cried Alleyne.\n\n\"The council will not break up until the banquet,\" remarked a\ngray-haired squire. \"You have a clear two hours.\"\n\n\"And the place?\"\n\n\"The tilting-yard is empty at this hour.\"\n\n\"Nay; it must not be within the grounds of the court, or it may go hard\nwith all concerned if it come to the ears of the prince.\"\n\n\"But there is a quiet spot near the river,\" said one youth. \"We have\nbut to pass through the abbey grounds, along the armory wall, past the\nchurch of St. Remi, and so down the Rue des Apotres.\"\n\n\"En avant, then!\" cried Tranter shortly, and the whole assembly flocked\nout into the open air, save only those whom the special orders of their\nmasters held to their posts. These unfortunates crowded to the small\ncasements, and craned their necks after the throng as far as they could\ncatch a glimpse of them.\n\nClose to the banks of the Garonne there lay a little tract of green\nsward, with the high wall of a prior's garden upon one side and an\norchard with a thick bristle of leafless apple-trees upon the other. The\nriver ran deep and swift up to the steep bank; but there were few boats\nupon it, and the ships were moored far out in the centre of the stream.\nHere the two combatants drew their swords and threw off their doublets,\nfor neither had any defensive armor. The duello with its stately\netiquette had not yet come into vogue, but rough and sudden encounters\nwere as common as they must ever be when hot-headed youth goes abroad\nwith a weapon strapped to its waist. In such combats, as well as in\nthe more formal sports of the tilting-yard, Tranter had won a name for\nstrength and dexterity which had caused Norbury to utter his well-meant\nwarning. On the other hand, Alleyne had used his weapons in constant\nexercise and practice on every day for many months, and being by nature\nquick of eye and prompt of hand, he might pass now as no mean swordsman.\nA strangely opposed pair they appeared as they approached each other:\nTranter dark and stout and stiff, with hairy chest and corded arms,\nAlleyne a model of comeliness and grace, with his golden hair and his\nskin as fair as a woman's. An unequal fight it seemed to most; but there\nwere a few, and they the most experienced, who saw something in the\nyouth's steady gray eye and wary step which left the issue open to\ndoubt.\n\n\"Hold, sirs, hold!\" cried Norbury, ere a blow had been struck. \"This\ngentleman hath a two-handed sword, a good foot longer than that of our\nfriend.\"\n\n\"Take mine, Alleyne,\" said Ford.\n\n\"Nay, friends,\" he answered, \"I understand the weight and balance of\nmine own. To work, sir, for our lord may need us at the abbey!\"\n\nTranter's great sword was indeed a mighty vantage in his favor. He stood\nwith his feet close together, his knees bent outwards, ready for a dash\ninwards or a spring out. The weapon he held straight up in front of him\nwith blade erect, so that he might either bring it down with a swinging\nblow, or by a turn of the heavy blade he might guard his own head and\nbody. A further protection lay in the broad and powerful guard which\ncrossed the hilt, and which was furnished with a deep and narrow notch,\nin which an expert swordsman might catch his foeman's blade, and by\na quick turn of his wrist might snap it across. Alleyne, on the other\nhand, must trust for his defence to his quick eye and active foot--for\nhis sword, though keen as a whetstone could make it, was of a light and\ngraceful build with a narrow, sloping pommel and a tapering steel.\n\nTranter well knew his advantage and lost no time in putting it to use.\nAs his opponent walked towards him he suddenly bounded forward and sent\nin a whistling cut which would have severed the other in twain had he\nnot sprung lightly back from it. So close was it that the point ripped\na gash in the jutting edge of his linen cyclas. Quick as a panther,\nAlleyne sprang in with a thrust, but Tranter, who was as active as he\nwas strong, had already recovered himself and turned it aside with a\nmovement of his heavy blade. Again he whizzed in a blow which made the\nspectators hold their breath, and again Alleyne very quickly and swiftly\nslipped from under it, and sent back two lightning thrusts which the\nother could scarce parry. So close were they to each other that Alleyne\nhad no time to spring back from the next cut, which beat down his sword\nand grazed his forehead, sending the blood streaming into his eyes and\ndown his cheeks. He sprang out beyond sword sweep, and the pair stood\nbreathing heavily, while the crowd of young squires buzzed their\napplause.\n\n\"Bravely struck on both sides!\" cried Roger Harcomb. \"You have both\nwon honor from this meeting, and it would be sin and shame to let it go\nfurther.\"\n\n\"You have done enough, Edricson,\" said Norbury.\n\n\"You have carried yourself well,\" cried several of the older squires.\n\n\"For my part, I have no wish to slay this young man,\" said Tranter,\nwiping his heated brow.\n\n\"Does this gentleman crave my pardon for having used me despitefully?\"\nasked Alleyne.\n\n\"Nay, not I.\"\n\n\"Then stand on your guard, sir!\" With a clatter and dash the two blades\nmet once more, Alleyne pressing in so as to keep within the full sweep\nof the heavy blade, while Tranter as continually sprang back to have\nspace for one of his fatal cuts. A three-parts-parried blow drew blood\nfrom Alleyne's left shoulder, but at the same moment he wounded Tranter\nslightly upon the thigh. Next instant, however, his blade had slipped\ninto the fatal notch, there was a sharp cracking sound with a tinkling\nupon the ground, and he found a splintered piece of steel fifteen inches\nlong was all that remained to him of his weapon.\n\n\"Your life is in my hands!\" cried Tranter, with a bitter smile.\n\n\"Nay, nay, he makes submission!\" broke in several squires.\n\n\"Another sword!\" cried Ford.\n\n\"Nay, sir,\" said Harcomb, \"that is not the custom.\"\n\n\"Throw down your hilt, Edricson,\" cried Norbury.\n\n\"Never!\" said Alleyne. \"Do you crave my pardon, sir?\"\n\n\"You are mad to ask it.\"\n\n\"Then on guard again!\" cried the young squire, and sprang in with a fire\nand a fury which more than made up for the shortness of his weapon. It\nhad not escaped him that his opponent was breathing in short, hoarse\ngasps, like a man who is dizzy with fatigue. Now was the time for the\npurer living and the more agile limb to show their value. Back and back\ngave Tranter, ever seeking time for a last cut. On and on came Alleyne,\nhis jagged point now at his foeman's face, now at his throat, now at\nhis chest, still stabbing and thrusting to pass the line of steel which\ncovered him. Yet his experienced foeman knew well that such efforts\ncould not be long sustained. Let him relax for one instant, and his\ndeath-blow had come. Relax he must! Flesh and blood could not stand\nthe strain. Already the thrusts were less fierce, the foot less ready,\nalthough there was no abatement of the spirit in the steady gray eyes.\nTranter, cunning and wary from years of fighting, knew that his chance\nhad come. He brushed aside the frail weapon which was opposed to him,\nwhirled up his great blade, sprang back to get the fairer sweep--and\nvanished into the waters of the Garonne.\n\nSo intent had the squires, both combatants and spectators, been on\nthe matter in hand, that all thought of the steep bank and swift still\nstream had gone from their minds. It was not until Tranter, giving back\nbefore the other's fiery rush, was upon the very brink, that a general\ncry warned him of his danger. That last spring, which he hoped would\nhave brought the fight to a bloody end, carried him clear of the edge,\nand he found himself in an instant eight feet deep in the ice-cold\nstream. Once and twice his gasping face and clutching fingers broke up\nthrough the still green water, sweeping outwards in the swirl of the\ncurrent. In vain were sword-sheaths, apple-branches and belts linked\ntogether thrown out to him by his companions. Alleyne had dropped his\nshattered sword and was standing, trembling in every limb, with his rage\nall changed in an instant to pity. For the third time the drowning man\ncame to the surface, his hands full of green slimy water-plants, his\neyes turned in despair to the shore. Their glance fell upon Alleyne,\nand he could not withstand the mute appeal which he read in them. In an\ninstant he, too, was in the Garonne, striking out with powerful strokes\nfor his late foeman.\n\nYet the current was swift and strong, and, good swimmer as he was, it\nwas no easy task which Alleyne had set himself. To clutch at Tranter and\nto seize him by the hair was the work of a few seconds, but to hold his\nhead above water and to make their way out of the current was another\nmatter. For a hundred strokes he did not seem to gain an inch. Then at\nlast, amid a shout of joy and praise from the bank, they slowly drew\nclear into more stagnant water, at the instant that a rope, made of a\ndozen sword-belts linked together by the buckles, was thrown by\nFord into their very hands. Three pulls from eager arms, and the two\ncombatants, dripping and pale, were dragged up the bank, and lay panting\nupon the grass.\n\nJohn Tranter was the first to come to himself, for although he had been\nlonger in the water, he had done nothing during that fierce battle with\nthe current. He staggered to his feet and looked down upon his rescuer,\nwho had raised himself upon his elbow, and was smiling faintly at the\nbuzz of congratulation and of praise which broke from the squires around\nhim.\n\n\"I am much beholden to you, sir,\" said Tranter, though in no very\nfriendly voice. \"Certes, I should have been in the river now but for\nyou, for I was born in Warwickshire, which is but a dry county, and\nthere are few who swim in those parts.\"\n\n\"I ask no thanks,\" Alleyne answered shortly. \"Give me your hand to rise,\nFord.\"\n\n\"The river has been my enemy,\" said Tranter, \"but it hath been a good\nfriend to you, for it has saved your life this day.\"\n\n\"That is as it may be,\" returned Alleyne.\n\n\"But all is now well over,\" quoth Harcomb, \"and no scath come of it,\nwhich is more than I had at one time hoped for. Our young friend here\nhath very fairly and honestly earned his right to be craftsman of\nthe Honorable Guild of the Squires of Bordeaux. Here is your doublet,\nTranter.\"\n\n\"Alas for my poor sword which lies at the bottom of the Garonne!\" said\nthe squire.\n\n\"Here is your pourpoint, Edricson,\" cried Norbury. \"Throw it over your\nshoulders, that you may have at least one dry garment.\"\n\n\"And now away back to the abbey!\" said several.\n\n\"One moment, sirs,\" cried Alleyne, who was leaning on Ford's shoulder,\nwith the broken sword, which he had picked up, still clutched in his\nright hand. \"My ears may be somewhat dulled by the water, and perchance\nwhat has been said has escaped me, but I have not yet heard this\ngentleman crave pardon for the insults which he put upon me in the\nhall.\"\n\n\"What! do you still pursue the quarrel?\" asked Tranter.\n\n\"And why not, sir? I am slow to take up such things, but once afoot I\nshall follow it while I have life or breath.\"\n\n\"Ma foi! you have not too much of either, for you are as white as\nmarble,\" said Harcomb bluntly. \"Take my rede, sir, and let it drop, for\nyou have come very well out from it.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Alleyne, \"this quarrel is none of my making; but, now that I\nam here, I swear to you that I shall never leave this spot until I have\nthat which I have come for: so ask my pardon, sir, or choose another\nglaive and to it again.\"\n\nThe young squire was deadly white from his exertions, both on the land\nand in the water. Soaking and stained, with a smear of blood on his\nwhite shoulder and another on his brow, there was still in his whole\npose and set of face the trace of an inflexible resolution. His\nopponent's duller and more material mind quailed before the fire and\nintensity of a higher spiritual nature.\n\n\"I had not thought that you had taken it so amiss,\" said he awkwardly.\n\"It was but such a jest as we play upon each other, and, if you must\nhave it so, I am sorry for it.\"\n\n\"Then I am sorry too,\" quoth Alleyne warmly, \"and here is my hand upon\nit.\"\n\n\"And the none-meat horn has blown three times,\" quoth Harcomb, as they\nall streamed in chattering groups from the ground. \"I know not what the\nprince's maitre-de-cuisine will say or think. By my troth! master Ford,\nyour friend here is in need of a cup of wine, for he hath drunk deeply\nof Garonne water. I had not thought from his fair face that he had stood\nto this matter so shrewdly.\"\n\n\"Faith,\" said Ford, \"this air of Bordeaux hath turned our turtle-dove\ninto a game-cock. A milder or more courteous youth never came out of\nHampshire.\"\n\n\"His master also, as I understand, is a very mild and courteous\ngentleman,\" remarked Harcomb; \"yet I do not think that they are either\nof them men with whom it is very safe to trifle.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI. HOW AGOSTINO PISANO RISKED HIS HEAD.\n\n\nEven the squires' table at the Abbey of St. Andrew's at Bordeaux was\non a very sumptuous scale while the prince held his court there. Here\nfirst, after the meagre fare of Beaulieu and the stinted board of the\nLady Loring, Alleyne learned the lengths to which luxury and refinement\nmight be pushed. Roasted peacocks, with the feathers all carefully\nreplaced, so that the bird lay upon the dish even as it had strutted in\nlife, boars' heads with the tusks gilded and the mouth lined with silver\nfoil, jellies in the shape of the Twelve Apostles, and a great pasty\nwhich formed an exact model of the king's new castle at Windsor--these\nwere a few of the strange dishes which faced him. An archer had brought\nhim a change of clothes from the cog, and he had already, with the\nelasticity of youth, shaken off the troubles and fatigues of the\nmorning. A page from the inner banqueting-hall had come with word that\ntheir master intended to drink wine at the lodgings of the Lord Chandos\nthat night, and that he desired his squires to sleep at the hotel of the\n\"Half Moon\" on the Rue des Apotres. Thither then they both set out in\nthe twilight after the long course of juggling tricks and glee-singing\nwith which the principal meal was concluded.\n\nA thin rain was falling as the two youths, with their cloaks over their\nheads, made their way on foot through the streets of the old town,\nleaving their horses in the royal stables. An occasional oil lamp at the\ncorner of a street, or in the portico of some wealthy burgher, threw a\nfaint glimmer over the shining cobblestones, and the varied motley crowd\nwho, in spite of the weather, ebbed and flowed along every highway. In\nthose scattered circles of dim radiance might be seen the whole\nbusy panorama of life in a wealthy and martial city. Here passed the\nround-faced burgher, swollen with prosperity, his sweeping dark-clothed\ngaberdine, flat velvet cap, broad leather belt and dangling pouch all\nspeaking of comfort and of wealth. Behind him his serving wench, her\nblue whimple over her head, and one hand thrust forth to bear the\nlanthorn which threw a golden bar of light along her master's path.\nBehind them a group of swaggering, half-drunken Yorkshire dalesmen,\nspeaking a dialect which their own southland countrymen could scarce\ncomprehend, their jerkins marked with the pelican, which showed that\nthey had come over in the train of the north-country Stapletons. The\nburgher glanced back at their fierce faces and quickened his step, while\nthe girl pulled her whimple closer round her, for there was a meaning in\ntheir wild eyes, as they stared at the purse and the maiden, which\nmen of all tongues could understand. Then came archers of the guard,\nshrill-voiced women of the camp, English pages with their fair skins and\nblue wondering eyes, dark-robed friars, lounging men-at-arms, swarthy\nloud-tongued Gascon serving-men, seamen from the river, rude peasants\nof the Medoc, and becloaked and befeathered squires of the court, all\njostling and pushing in an ever-changing, many-colored stream, while\nEnglish, French, Welsh, Basque, and the varied dialects of Gascony and\nGuienne filled the air with their babel. From time to time the throng\nwould be burst asunder and a lady's horse-litter would trot past towards\nthe abbey, or there would come a knot of torch-bearing archers walking\nin front of Gascon baron or English knight, as he sought his lodgings after\nthe palace revels. Clatter of hoofs, clinking of weapons, shouts from the\ndrunken brawlers, and high laughter of women, they all rose up, like\nthe mist from a marsh, out of the crowded streets of the dim-lit city.\n\nOne couple out of the moving throng especially engaged the attention\nof the two young squires, the more so as they were going in their own\ndirection and immediately in front of them. They consisted of a man and\na girl, the former very tall with rounded shoulders, a limp of one\nfoot, and a large flat object covered with dark cloth under his arm.\nHis companion was young and straight, with a quick, elastic step and\ngraceful bearing, though so swathed in a black mantle that little could\nbe seen of her face save a flash of dark eyes and a curve of raven hair.\nThe tall man leaned heavily upon her to take the weight off his tender\nfoot, while he held his burden betwixt himself and the wall, cuddling it\njealously to his side, and thrusting forward his young companion to act\nas a buttress whenever the pressure of the crowd threatened to bear him\naway. The evident anxiety of the man, the appearance of his attendant,\nand the joint care with which they defended their concealed possession,\nexcited the interest of the two young Englishmen who walked within\nhand-touch of them.\n\n\"Courage, child!\" they heard the tall man exclaim in strange hybrid\nFrench. \"If we can win another sixty paces we are safe.\"\n\n\"Hold it safe, father,\" the other answered, in the same soft, mincing\ndialect. \"We have no cause for fear.\"\n\n\"Verily, they are heathens and barbarians,\" cried the man; \"mad,\nhowling, drunken barbarians! Forty more paces, Tita mia, and I swear to\nthe holy Eloi, patron of all learned craftsmen, that I will never set\nfoot over my door again until the whole swarm are safely hived in their\ncamp of Dax, or wherever else they curse with their presence. Twenty\nmore paces, my treasure! Ah, my God! how they push and brawl! Get\nin their way, Tita mia! Put your little elbow bravely out! Set your\nshoulders squarely against them, girl! Why should you give way to these\nmad islanders? Ah, cospetto! we are ruined and destroyed!\"\n\nThe crowd had thickened in front, so that the lame man and the girl had\ncome to a stand. Several half-drunken English archers, attracted, as\nthe squires had been, by their singular appearance, were facing towards\nthem, and peering at them through the dim light.\n\n\"By the three kings!\" cried one, \"here is an old dotard shrew to have\nso goodly a crutch! Use the leg that God hath given you, man, and do not\nbear so heavily upon the wench.\"\n\n\"Twenty devils fly away with him!\" shouted another. \"What, how, man!\nare brave archers to go maidless while an old man uses one as a\nwalking-staff?\"\n\n\"Come with me, my honey-bird!\" cried a third, plucking at the girl's\nmantle.\n\n\"Nay, with me, my heart's desire!\" said the first. \"By St. George! our\nlife is short, and we should be merry while we may. May I never see\nChester Bridge again, if she is not a right winsome lass!\"\n\n\"What hath the old toad under his arm?\" cried one of the others. \"He\nhugs it to him as the devil hugged the pardoner.\"\n\n\"Let us see, old bag of bones; let us see what it is that you have\nunder your arm!\" They crowded in upon him, while he, ignorant of their\nlanguage, could but clutch the girl with one hand and the parcel with\nthe other, looking wildly about in search of help.\n\n\"Nay, lads, nay!\" cried Ford, pushing back the nearest archer. \"This\nis but scurvy conduct. Keep your hands off, or it will be the worse for\nyou.\"\n\n\"Keep your tongue still, or it will be the worse for you,\" shouted the\nmost drunken of the archers. \"Who are you to spoil sport?\"\n\n\"A raw squire, new landed,\" said another. \"By St. Thomas of Kent! we are\nat the beck of our master, but we are not to be ordered by every babe\nwhose mother hath sent him as far as Aquitaine.\"\n\n\"Oh, gentlemen,\" cried the girl in broken French, \"for dear Christ's\nsake stand by us, and do not let these terrible men do us an injury.\"\n\n\"Have no fears, lady,\" Alleyne answered. \"We shall see that all is\nwell with you. Take your hand from the girl's wrist, you north-country\nrogue!\"\n\n\"Hold to her, Wat!\" said a great black-bearded man-at-arms, whose steel\nbreast-plate glimmered in the dusk. \"Keep your hands from your bodkins,\nyou two, for that was my trade before you were born, and, by God's soul!\nI will drive a handful of steel through you if you move a finger.\"\n\n\"Thank God!\" said Alleyne suddenly, as he spied in the lamp-light a\nshock of blazing red hair which fringed a steel cap high above the heads\nof the crowd. \"Here is John, and Aylward, too! Help us, comrades, for\nthere is wrong being done to this maid and to the old man.\"\n\n\"Hola, mon petit,\" said the old bowman, pushing his way through the\ncrowd, with the huge forester at his heels. \"What is all this, then?\nBy the twang of string! I think that you will have some work upon your\nhands if you are to right all the wrongs that you may see upon this side\nof the water. It is not to be thought that a troop of bowmen, with the\nwine buzzing in their ears, will be as soft-spoken as so many young\nclerks in an orchard. When you have been a year with the Company\nyou will think less of such matters. But what is amiss here? The\nprovost-marshal with his archers is coming this way, and some of you may\nfind yourselves in the stretch-neck, if you take not heed.\"\n\n\"Why, it is old Sam Aylward of the White Company!\" shouted the\nman-at-arms. \"Why, Samkin, what hath come upon thee? I can call to mind\nthe day when you were as roaring a blade as ever called himself a free\ncompanion. By my soul! from Limoges to Navarre, who was there who would\nkiss a wench or cut a throat as readily as bowman Aylward of Hawkwood's\ncompany?\"\n\n\"Like enough, Peter,\" said Aylward, \"and, by my hilt! I may not have\nchanged so much. But it was ever a fair loose and a clear mark with me.\nThe wench must be willing, or the man must be standing up against me,\nelse, by these ten finger bones! either were safe enough for me.\"\n\nA glance at Aylward's resolute face, and at the huge shoulders of Hordle\nJohn, had convinced the archers that there was little to be got by\nviolence. The girl and the old man began to shuffle on in the crowd\nwithout their tormentors venturing to stop them. Ford and Alleyne\nfollowed slowly behind them, but Aylward caught the latter by the\nshoulder.\n\n\"By my hilt! camarade,\" said he, \"I hear that you have done great things\nat the Abbey to-day, but I pray you to have a care, for it was I who\nbrought you into the Company, and it would be a black day for me if\naught were to befall you.\"\n\n\"Nay, Aylward, I will have a care.\"\n\n\"Thrust not forward into danger too much, mon petit. In a little time\nyour wrist will be stronger and your cut more shrewd. There will be some\nof us at the 'Rose de Guienne' to-night, which is two doors from the\nhotel of the 'Half Moon,' so if you would drain a cup with a few simple\narchers you will be right welcome.\"\n\nAlleyne promised to be there if his duties would allow, and then,\nslipping through the crowd, he rejoined Ford, who was standing in talk\nwith the two strangers, who had now reached their own doorstep.\n\n\"Brave young signor,\" cried the tall man, throwing his arms round\nAlleyne, \"how can we thank you enough for taking our parts against those\nhorrible drunken barbarians. What should we have done without you? My\nTita would have been dragged away, and my head would have been shivered\ninto a thousand fragments.\"\n\n\"Nay, I scarce think that they would have mishandled you so,\" said\nAlleyne in surprise.\n\n\"Ho, ho!\" cried he with a high crowing laugh, \"it is not the head upon\nmy shoulders that I think of. Cospetto! no. It is the head under my arm\nwhich you have preserved.\"\n\n\"Perhaps the signori would deign to come under our roof, father,\" said\nthe maiden. \"If we bide here, who knows that some fresh tumult may not\nbreak out.\"\n\n\"Well said, Tita! Well said, my girl! I pray you, sirs, to honor my\nunworthy roof so far. A light, Giacomo! There are five steps up. Now\ntwo more. So! Here we are at last in safety. Corpo di Bacco! I would\nnot have given ten maravedi for my head when those children of the devil\nwere pushing us against the wall. Tita mia, you have been a brave girl,\nand it was better that you should be pulled and pushed than that my head\nshould be broken.\"\n\n\"Yes indeed, father,\" said she earnestly.\n\n\"But those English! Ach! Take a Goth, a Hun, and a Vandal, mix them\ntogether and add a Barbary rover; then take this creature and make him\ndrunk--and you have an Englishman. My God! were ever such people upon\nearth! What place is free from them? I hear that they swarm in Italy\neven as they swarm here. Everywhere you will find them, except in\nheaven.\"\n\n\"Dear father,\" cried Tita, still supporting the angry old man, as he\nlimped up the curved oaken stair. \"You must not forget that these good\nsignori who have preserved us are also English.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes. My pardon, sirs! Come into my rooms here. There are some who\nmight find some pleasure in these paintings, but I learn the art of war\nis the only art which is held in honor in your island.\"\n\nThe low-roofed, oak-panelled room into which he conducted them was\nbrilliantly lit by four scented oil lamps. Against the walls, upon the\ntable, on the floor, and in every part of the chamber were great sheets\nof glass painted in the most brilliant colors. Ford and Edricson gazed\naround them in amazement, for never had they seen such magnificent works\nof art.\n\n\"You like them then,\" the lame artist cried, in answer to the look of\npleasure and of surprise in their faces. \"There are then some of you who\nhave a taste for such trifling.\"\n\n\"I could not have believed it,\" exclaimed Alleyne. \"What color! What\noutlines! See to this martyrdom of the holy Stephen, Ford. Could you not\nyourself pick up one of these stones which lie to the hand of the wicked\nmurtherers?\"\n\n\"And see this stag, Alleyne, with the cross betwixt its horns. By my\nfaith! I have never seen a better one at the Forest of Bere.\"\n\n\"And the green of this grass--how bright and clear! Why all the painting\nthat I have seen is but child's play beside this. This worthy gentleman\nmust be one of those great painters of whom I have oft heard brother\nBartholomew speak in the old days at Beaulieu.\"\n\nThe dark mobile face of the artist shone with pleasure at the unaffected\ndelight of the two young Englishmen. His daughter had thrown off her\nmantle and disclosed a face of the finest and most delicate Italian\nbeauty, which soon drew Ford's eyes from the pictures in front of him.\nAlleyne, however, continued with little cries of admiration and of\nwonderment to turn from the walls to the table and yet again to the\nwalls.\n\n\"What think you of this, young sir?\" asked the painter, tearing off the\ncloth which concealed the flat object which he had borne beneath his\narm. It was a leaf-shaped sheet of glass bearing upon it a face with a\nhalo round it, so delicately outlined, and of so perfect a tint, that it\nmight have been indeed a human face which gazed with sad and thoughtful\neyes upon the young squire. He clapped his hands, with that thrill of\njoy which true art will ever give to a true artist.\n\n\"It is great!\" he cried. \"It is wonderful! But I marvel, sir, that you\nshould have risked a work of such beauty and value by bearing it at\nnight through so unruly a crowd.\"\n\n\"I have indeed been rash,\" said the artist. \"Some wine, Tita, from the\nFlorence flask! Had it not been for you, I tremble to think of what\nmight have come of it. See to the skin tint: it is not to be replaced,\nfor paint as you will, it is not once in a hundred times that it is not\neither burned too brown in the furnace or else the color will not hold,\nand you get but a sickly white. There you can see the very veins and the\nthrob of the blood. Yes, diavolo! if it had broken, my heart would have\nbroken too. It is for the choir window in the church of St. Remi, and\nwe had gone, my little helper and I, to see if it was indeed of the size\nfor the stonework. Night had fallen ere we finished, and what could we\ndo save carry it home as best we might? But you, young sir, you speak as\nif you too knew something of the art.\"\n\n\"So little that I scarce dare speak of it in your presence,\" Alleyne\nanswered. \"I have been cloister-bred, and it was no very great matter to\nhandle the brush better than my brother novices.\"\n\n\"There are pigments, brush, and paper,\" said the old artist. \"I do not\ngive you glass, for that is another matter, and takes much skill in the\nmixing of colors. Now I pray you to show me a touch of your art. I thank\nyou, Tita! The Venetian glasses, cara mia, and fill them to the brim. A\nseat, signor!\"\n\nWhile Ford, in his English-French, was conversing with Tita in her\nItalian-French, the old man was carefully examining his precious head to\nsee that no scratch had been left upon its surface. When he glanced up\nagain, Alleyne had, with a few bold strokes of the brush, tinted in a\nwoman's face and neck upon the white sheet in front of him.\n\n\"Diavolo!\" exclaimed the old artist, standing with his head on one side,\n\"you have power; yes, cospetto! you have power, it is the face of an\nangel!\"\n\n\"It is the face of the Lady Maude Loring!\" cried Ford, even more\nastonished.\n\n\"Why, on my faith, it is not unlike her!\" said Alleyne, in some\nconfusion.\n\n\"Ah! a portrait! So much the better. Young man, I am Agostino Pisano,\nthe son of Andrea Pisano, and I say again that you have power. Further,\nI say, that, if you will stay with me, I will teach you all the secrets\nof the glass-stainers' mystery: the pigments and their thickening,\nwhich will fuse into the glass and which will not, the furnace and the\nglazing--every trick and method you shall know.\"\n\n\"I would be right glad to study under such a master,\" said Alleyne; \"but\nI am sworn to follow my lord whilst this war lasts.\"\n\n\"War! war!\" cried the old Italian. \"Ever this talk of war. And the men\nthat you hold to be great--what are they? Have I not heard their names?\nSoldiers, butchers, destroyers! Ah, per Bacco! we have men in Italy who\nare in very truth great. You pull down, you despoil; but they build up,\nthey restore. Ah, if you could but see my own dear Pisa, the Duomo, the\ncloisters of Campo Santo, the high Campanile, with the mellow throb of\nher bells upon the warm Italian air! Those are the works of great men.\nAnd I have seen them with my own eyes, these very eyes which look upon\nyou. I have seen Andrea Orcagna, Taddeo Gaddi, Giottino, Stefano, Simone\nMemmi--men whose very colors I am not worthy to mix. And I have seen the\naged Giotto, and he in turn was pupil to Cimabue, before whom there was\nno art in Italy, for the Greeks were brought to paint the chapel of the\nGondi at Florence. Ah, signori, there are the real great men whose names\nwill be held in honor when your soldiers are shown to have been the\nenemies of humankind.\"\n\n\"Faith, sir,\" said Ford, \"there is something to say for the soldiers\nalso, for, unless they be defended, how are all these gentlemen whom you\nhave mentioned to preserve the pictures which they have painted?\"\n\n\"And all these!\" said Alleyne. \"Have you indeed done them all?--and\nwhere are they to go?\"\n\n\"Yes, signor, they are all from my hand. Some are, as you see, upon one\nsheet, and some are in many pieces which may fasten together. There are\nsome who do but paint upon the glass, and then, by placing another sheet\nof glass upon the top and fastening it, they keep the air from their\npainting. Yet I hold that the true art of my craft lies as much in the\nfurnace as in the brush. See this rose window, which is from the model\nof the Church of the Holy Trinity at Vendome, and this other of the\n'Finding of the Grail,' which is for the apse of the Abbey church. Time\nwas when none but my countrymen could do these things; but there is\nClement of Chartres and others in France who are very worthy workmen.\nBut, ah! there is that ever shrieking brazen tongue which will not let\nus forget for one short hour that it is the arm of the savage, and not\nthe hand of the master, which rules over the world.\"\n\nA stern, clear bugle call had sounded close at hand to summon some\nfollowing together for the night.\n\n\"It is a sign to us as well,\" said Ford. \"I would fain stay here forever\namid all these beautiful things--\" staring hard at the blushing Tita as\nhe spoke--\"but we must be back at our lord's hostel ere he reach it.\"\nAmid renewed thanks and with promises to come again, the two squires\nbade their leave of the old Italian glass-stainer and his daughter. The\nstreets were clearer now, and the rain had stopped, so they made their\nway quickly from the Rue du Roi, in which their new friends dwelt, to\nthe Rue des Apotres, where the hostel of the \"Half Moon\" was situated.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII. HOW THE BOWMEN HELD WASSAIL AT THE \"ROSE DE GUIENNE.\"\n\n\n\"Mon Dieu! Alleyne, saw you ever so lovely a face?\" cried Ford as they\nhurried along together. \"So pure, so peaceful, and so beautiful!\"\n\n\"In sooth, yes. And the hue of the skin the most perfect that ever I\nsaw. Marked you also how the hair curled round the brow? It was wonder\nfine.\"\n\n\"Those eyes, too!\" cried Ford. \"How clear and how tender--simple, and\nyet so full of thought!\"\n\n\"If there was a weakness it was in the chin,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"Nay. I saw none.\"\n\n\"It was well curved, it is true.\"\n\n\"Most daintily so.\"\n\n\"And yet----\"\n\n\"What then, Alleyne? Wouldst find flaw in the sun?\"\n\n\"Well, bethink you, Ford, would not more power and expression have been\nput into the face by a long and noble beard?\"\n\n\"Holy Virgin!\" cried Ford, \"the man is mad. A beard on the face of\nlittle Tita!\"\n\n\"Tita! Who spoke of Tita?\"\n\n\"Who spoke of aught else?\"\n\n\"It was the picture of St. Remi, man, of which I have been discoursing.\"\n\n\"You are indeed,\" cried Ford, laughing, \"a Goth, Hun, and Vandal, with\nall the other hard names which the old man called us. How could you\nthink so much of a smear of pigments, when there was such a picture\npainted by the good God himself in the very room with you? But who is\nthis?\"\n\n\"If it please you, sirs,\" said an archer, running across to them,\n\"Aylward and others would be right glad to see you. They are within\nhere. He bade me say to you that the Lord Loring will not need your\nservice to-night, as he sleeps with the Lord Chandos.\"\n\n\"By my faith!\" said Ford, \"we do not need a guide to lead us to their\npresence.\" As he spoke there came a roar of singing from the tavern upon\nthe right, with shouts of laughter and stamping of feet. Passing under\na low door, and down a stone-flagged passage, they found themselves in a\nlong narrow hall lit up by a pair of blazing torches, one at either end.\nTrusses of straw had been thrown down along the walls, and reclining on\nthem were some twenty or thirty archers, all of the Company, their\nsteel caps and jacks thrown off, their tunics open and their great limbs\nsprawling upon the clay floor. At every man's elbow stood his leathern\nblackjack of beer, while at the further end a hogshead with its end\nknocked in promised an abundant supply for the future. Behind the\nhogshead, on a half circle of kegs, boxes, and rude settles, sat\nAylward, John, Black Simon and three or four other leading men of the\narchers, together with Goodwin Hawtayne, the master-shipman, who had\nleft his yellow cog in the river to have a last rouse with his friends\nof the Company. Ford and Alleyne took their seats between Aylward and\nBlack Simon, without their entrance checking in any degree the hubbub\nwhich was going on.\n\n\"Ale, mes camarades?\" cried the bowman, \"or shall it be wine? Nay,\nbut ye must have the one or the other. Here, Jacques, thou limb of the\ndevil, bring a bottrine of the oldest vernage, and see that you do not\nshake it. Hast heard the news?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" cried both the squires.\n\n\"That we are to have a brave tourney.\"\n\n\"A tourney?\"\n\n\"Aye, lads. For the Captal du Buch hath sworn that he will find\nfive knights from this side of the water who will ride over any five\nEnglishmen who ever threw leg over saddle; and Chandos hath taken up the\nchallenge, and the prince hath promised a golden vase for the man who\ncarries himself best, and all the court is in a buzz over it.\"\n\n\"Why should the knights have all the sport?\" growled Hordle John. \"Could\nthey not set up five archers for the honor of Aquitaine and of Gascony?\"\n\n\"Or five men-at-arms,\" said Black Simon.\n\n\"But who are the English knights?\" asked Hawtayne.\n\n\"There are three hundred and forty-one in the town,\" said Aylward, \"and\nI hear that three hundred and forty cartels and defiances have already\nbeen sent in, the only one missing being Sir John Ravensholme, who is in\nhis bed with the sweating sickness, and cannot set foot to ground.\"\n\n\"I have heard of it from one of the archers of the guard,\" cried a\nbowman from among the straw; \"I hear that the prince wished to break a\nlance, but that Chandos would not hear of it, for the game is likely to\nbe a rough one.\"\n\n\"Then there is Chandos.\"\n\n\"Nay, the prince would not permit it. He is to be marshal of the lists,\nwith Sir William Felton and the Duc d'Armagnac. The English will be the\nLord Audley, Sir Thomas Percy, Sir Thomas Wake, Sir William Beauchamp,\nand our own very good lord and leader.\"\n\n\"Hurrah for him, and God be with him!\" cried several. \"It is honor to\ndraw string in his service.\"\n\n\"So you may well say,\" said Aylward. \"By my ten finger-bones! if you\nmarch behind the pennon of the five roses you are like to see all that a\ngood bowman would wish to see. Ha! yes, mes garcons, you laugh, but, by\nmy hilt! you may not laugh when you find yourselves where he will take\nyou, for you can never tell what strange vow he may not have sworn to. I\nsee that he has a patch over his eye, even as he had at Poictiers. There\nwill come bloodshed of that patch, or I am the more mistaken.\"\n\n\"How chanced it at Poictiers, good Master Aylward?\" asked one of the\nyoung archers, leaning upon his elbows, with his eyes fixed respectfully\nupon the old bowman's rugged face.\n\n\"Aye, Aylward, tell us of it,\" cried Hordle John.\n\n\"Here is to old Samkin Aylward!\" shouted several at the further end of\nthe room, waving their blackjacks in the air.\n\n\"Ask him!\" said Aylward modestly, nodding towards Black Simon. \"He saw\nmore than I did. And yet, by the holy nails! there was not very much\nthat I did not see either.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" said Simon, shaking his head, \"it was a great day. I never\nhope to see such another. There were some fine archers who drew their\nlast shaft that day. We shall never see better men, Aylward.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! no. There was little Robby Withstaff, and Andrew\nSalblaster, and Wat Alspaye, who broke the neck of the German. Mon Dieu!\nwhat men they were! Take them how you would, at long butts or short,\nhoyles, rounds, or rovers, better bowmen never twirled a shaft over\ntheir thumb-nails.\"\n\n\"But the fight, Aylward, the fight!\" cried several impatiently.\n\n\"Let me fill my jack first, boys, for it is a thirsty tale. It was at\nthe first fall of the leaf that the prince set forth, and he passed\nthrough Auvergne, and Berry, and Anjou, and Touraine. In Auvergne the\nmaids are kind, but the wines are sour. In Berry it is the women that\nare sour, but the wines are rich. Anjou, however, is a very good\nland for bowmen, for wine and women are all that heart could wish. In\nTouraine I got nothing save a broken pate, but at Vierzon I had a great\ngood fortune, for I had a golden pyx from the minster, for which I\nafterwards got nine Genoan janes from the goldsmith in the Rue\nMont Olive. From thence we went to Bourges, where I had a tunic of\nflame-colored silk and a very fine pair of shoes with tassels of silk\nand drops of silver.\"\n\n\"From a stall, Aylward?\" asked one of the young archers.\n\n\"Nay, from a man's feet, lad. I had reason to think that he might not\nneed them again, seeing that a thirty-inch shaft had feathered in his\nback.\"\n\n\"And what then, Aylward?\"\n\n\"On we went, coz, some six thousand of us, until we came to Issodun, and\nthere again a very great thing befell.\"\n\n\"A battle, Aylward?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay; a greater thing than that. There is little to be gained out\nof a battle, unless one have the fortune to win a ransom. At Issodun I\nand three Welshmen came upon a house which all others had passed, and\nwe had the profit of it to ourselves. For myself, I had a fine\nfeather-bed--a thing which you will not see in a long day's journey in\nEngland. You have seen it, Alleyne, and you, John. You will bear me out\nthat it is a noble bed. We put it on a sutler's mule, and bore it after\nthe army. It was on my mind that I would lay it by until I came to\nstart house of mine own, and I have it now in a very safe place near\nLyndhurst.\"\n\n\"And what then, master-bowman?\" asked Hawtayne. \"By St. Christopher! it\nis indeed a fair and goodly life which you have chosen, for you gather\nup the spoil as a Warsash man gathers lobsters, without grace or favor\nfrom any man.\"\n\n\"You are right, master-shipman,\" said another of the older archers.\n\"It is an old bowyer's rede that the second feather of a fenny goose is\nbetter than the pinion of a tame one. Draw on old lad, for I have come\nbetween you and the clout.\"\n\n\"On we went then,\" said Aylward, after a long pull at his blackjack.\n\"There were some six thousand of us, with the prince and his knights,\nand the feather-bed upon a sutler's mule in the centre. We made great\nhavoc in Touraine, until we came into Romorantin, where I chanced upon\na gold chain and two bracelets of jasper, which were stolen from me the\nsame day by a black-eyed wench from the Ardennes. Mon Dieu! there are\nsome folk who have no fear of Domesday in them, and no sign of grace in\ntheir souls, for ever clutching and clawing at another man's chattels.\"\n\n\"But the battle, Aylward, the battle!\" cried several, amid a burst of\nlaughter.\n\n\"I come to it, my young war-pups. Well, then, the King of France had\nfollowed us with fifty thousand men, and he made great haste to catch\nus, but when he had us he scarce knew what to do with us, for we were\nso drawn up among hedges and vineyards that they could not come nigh us,\nsave by one lane. On both sides were archers, men-at-arms and knights\nbehind, and in the centre the baggage, with my feather-bed upon a\nsutler's mule. Three hundred chosen knights came straight for it, and,\nindeed, they were very brave men, but such a drift of arrows met them\nthat few came back. Then came the Germans, and they also fought very\nbravely, so that one or two broke through the archers and came as far\nas the feather-bed, but all to no purpose. Then out rides our own little\nhothead with the patch over his eye, and my Lord Audley with his four\nCheshire squires, and a few others of like kidney, and after them went\nthe prince and Chandos, and then the whole throng of us, with axe and\nsword, for we had shot away our arrows. Ma foi! it was a foolish thing,\nfor we came forth from the hedges, and there was naught to guard the\nbaggage had they ridden round behind us. But all went well with us, and\nthe king was taken, and little Robby Withstaff and I fell in with a wain\nwith twelve firkins of wine for the king's own table, and, by my hilt!\nif you ask me what happened after that, I cannot answer you, nor can\nlittle Robby Withstaff either.\"\n\n\"And next day?\"\n\n\"By my faith! we did not tarry long, but we hied back to Bordeaux, where\nwe came in safety with the King of France and also the feather-bed. I\nsold my spoil, mes garcons, for as many gold-pieces as I could hold in\nmy hufken, and for seven days I lit twelve wax candles upon the altar of\nSt. Andrew; for if you forget the blessed when things are well with you,\nthey are very likely to forget you when you have need of them. I have a\nscore of one hundred and nineteen pounds of wax against the holy Andrew,\nand, as he was a very just man, I doubt not that I shall have full weigh\nand measure when I have most need of it.\"\n\n\"Tell me, master Aylward,\" cried a young fresh-faced archer at the\nfurther end of the room, \"what was this great battle about?\"\n\n\"Why, you jack-fool, what would it be about save who should wear the\ncrown of France?\"\n\n\"I thought that mayhap it might be as to who should have this\nfeather-bed of thine.\"\n\n\"If I come down to you, Silas, I may lay my belt across your shoulders,\"\nAylward answered, amid a general shout of laughter. \"But it is time\nyoung chickens went to roost when they dare cackle against their elders.\nIt is late, Simon.\"\n\n\"Nay, let us have another song.\"\n\n\"Here is Arnold of Sowley will troll as good a stave as any man in the\nCompany.\"\n\n\"Nay, we have one here who is second to none,\" said Hawtayne, laying his\nhand upon big John's shoulder. \"I have heard him on the cog with a voice\nlike the wave upon the shore. I pray you, friend, to give us 'The Bells\nof Milton,' or, if you will, 'The Franklin's Maid.'\"\n\nHordle John drew the back of his hand across his mouth, fixed his eyes\nupon the corner of the ceiling, and bellowed forth, in a voice which\nmade the torches flicker, the southland ballad for which he had been\nasked:--\n\n        The franklin he hath gone to roam,\n        The franklin's maid she bides at home,\n        But she is cold and coy and staid,\n        And who may win the franklin's maid?\n\n        There came a knight of high renown\n        In bassinet and ciclatoun;\n        On bended knee full long he prayed,\n        He might not win the franklin's maid.\n\n        There came a squire so debonair\n        His dress was rich, his words were fair,\n        He sweetly sang, he deftly played:\n        He could not win the franklin's maid.\n\n        There came a mercer wonder-fine\n        With velvet cap and gaberdine;\n        For all his ships, for all his trade\n        He could not buy the franklin's maid.\n\n        There came an archer bold and true,\n        With bracer guard and stave of yew;\n        His purse was light, his jerkin frayed;\n        Haro, alas! the franklin's maid!\n\n        Oh, some have laughed and some have cried\n        And some have scoured the country-side!\n        But off they ride through wood and glade,\n        The bowman and the franklin's maid.\n\nA roar of delight from his audience, with stamping of feet and beating\nof blackjacks against the ground, showed how thoroughly the song was\nto their taste, while John modestly retired into a quart pot, which he\ndrained in four giant gulps. \"I sang that ditty in Hordle ale-house ere\nI ever thought to be an archer myself,\" quoth he.\n\n\"Fill up your stoups!\" cried Black Simon, thrusting his own goblet into\nthe open hogshead in front of him. \"Here is a last cup to the White\nCompany, and every brave boy who walks behind the roses of Loring!\"\n\n\"To the wood, the flax, and the gander's wing!\" said an old gray-headed\narcher on the right.\n\n\"To a gentle loose, and the King of Spain for a mark at fourteen score!\"\ncried another.\n\n\"To a bloody war!\" shouted a fourth. \"Many to go and few to come!\"\n\n\"With the most gold to the best steel!\" added a fifth.\n\n\"And a last cup to the maids of our heart!\" cried Aylward. \"A steady\nhand and a true eye, boys; so let two quarts be a bowman's portion.\"\nWith shout and jest and snatch of song they streamed from the room, and\nall was peaceful once more in the \"Rose de Guienne.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII. HOW ENGLAND HELD THE LISTS AT BORDEAUX. So used were the\ngood burghers of Bordeaux to martial display and knightly sport, that an\nordinary joust or tournament was an everyday matter with them. The fame\nand brilliancy of the prince's court had drawn the knights-errant and\npursuivants-of-arms from every part of Europe. In the long lists by the\nGaronne on the landward side of the northern gate there had been many a\nstrange combat, when the Teutonic knight, fresh from the conquest of the\nPrussian heathen, ran a course against the knight of Calatrava, hardened\nby continual struggle against the Moors, or cavaliers from Portugal\nbroke a lance with Scandinavian warriors from the further shore of the\ngreat Northern Ocean. Here fluttered many an outland pennon, bearing\nsymbol and blazonry from the banks of the Danube, the wilds of Lithuania\nand the mountain strongholds of Hungary; for chivalry was of no clime\nand of no race, nor was any land so wild that the fame and name of the\nprince had not sounded through it from border to border.\n\nGreat, however, was the excitement through town and district when it\nwas learned that on the third Wednesday in Advent there would be held\na passage-at-arms in which five knights of England would hold the lists\nagainst all comers. The great concourse of noblemen and famous soldiers,\nthe national character of the contest, and the fact that this was a last\ntrial of arms before what promised to be an arduous and bloody war,\nall united to make the event one of the most notable and brilliant that\nBordeaux had ever seen. On the eve of the contest the peasants flocked\nin from the whole district of the Medoc, and the fields beyond the walls\nwere whitened with the tents of those who could find no warmer lodging.\nFrom the distant camp of Dax, too, and from Blaye, Bourge, Libourne, St.\nEmilion, Castillon, St. Macaire, Cardillac, Ryons, and all the cluster\nof flourishing towns which look upon Bordeaux as their mother, there\nthronged an unceasing stream of horsemen and of footmen, all converging\nupon the great city. By the morning of the day on which the courses were\nto be run, not less than eighty people had assembled round the lists\nand along the low grassy ridge which looks down upon the scene of the\nencounter.\n\nIt was, as may well be imagined, no easy matter among so many noted\ncavaliers to choose out five on either side who should have precedence\nover their fellows. A score of secondary combats had nearly arisen from\nthe rivalries and bad blood created by the selection, and it was only\nthe influence of the prince and the efforts of the older barons which\nkept the peace among so many eager and fiery soldiers. Not till the day\nbefore the courses were the shields finally hung out for the inspection\nof the ladies and the heralds, so that all men might know the names\nof the champions and have the opportunity to prefer any charge against\nthem, should there be stain upon them which should disqualify them from\ntaking part in so noble and honorable a ceremony.\n\nSir Hugh Calverley and Sir Robert Knolles had not yet returned from\ntheir raid into the marches of the Navarre, so that the English party\nwere deprived of two of their most famous lances. Yet there remained so\nmany good names that Chandos and Felton, to whom the selection had been\nreferred, had many an earnest consultation, in which every feat of\narms and failure or success of each candidate was weighed and balanced\nagainst the rival claims of his companions. Lord Audley of Cheshire,\nthe hero of Poictiers, and Loring of Hampshire, who was held to be the\nsecond lance in the army, were easily fixed upon. Then, of the younger\nmen, Sir Thomas Percy of Northumberland, Sir Thomas Wake of Yorkshire,\nand Sir William Beauchamp of Gloucestershire, were finally selected to\nuphold the honor of England. On the other side were the veteran Captal\nde Buch and the brawny Olivier de Clisson, with the free companion\nSir Perducas d'Albret, the valiant Lord of Mucident, and Sigismond von\nAltenstadt, of the Teutonic Order. The older soldiers among the English\nshook their heads as they looked upon the escutcheons of these famous\nwarriors, for they were all men who had spent their lives upon the\nsaddle, and bravery and strength can avail little against experience and\nwisdom of war.\n\n\"By my faith! Sir John,\" said the prince as he rode through the winding\nstreets on his way to the list, \"I should have been glad to have\nsplintered a lance to-day. You have seen me hold a spear since I had\nstrength to lift one, and should know best whether I do not merit a\nplace among this honorable company.\"\n\n\"There is no better seat and no truer lance, sire,\" said Chandos; \"but,\nif I may say so without fear of offence, it were not fitting that you\nshould join in this debate.\"\n\n\"And why, Sir John?\"\n\n\"Because, sire, it is not for you to take part with Gascons against\nEnglish, or with English against Gascons, seeing that you are lord of\nboth. We are not too well loved by the Gascons now, and it is but the\ngolden link of your princely coronet which holds us together. If that be\nsnapped I know not what would follow.\"\n\n\"Snapped, Sir John!\" cried the prince, with an angry sparkle in his dark\neyes. \"What manner of talk is this? You speak as though the allegiance\nof our people were a thing which might be thrown off or on like a\nfalcon's jessel.\"\n\n\"With a sorry hack one uses whip and spur, sire,\" said Chandos; \"but\nwith a horse of blood and spirit a good cavalier is gentle and soothing,\ncoaxing rather than forcing. These folk are strange people, and you must\nhold their love, even as you have it now, for you will get from their\nkindness what all the pennons in your army could not wring from them.\"\n\n\"You are over-grave to-day, John,\" the prince answered. \"We may keep\nsuch questions for our council-chamber. But how now, my brothers of\nSpain, and of Majorca, what think you of this challenge?\"\n\n\"I look to see some handsome joisting,\" said Don Pedro, who rode with\nthe King of Majorca upon the right of the prince, while Chandos was on\nthe left. \"By St. James of Compostella! but these burghers would bear\nsome taxing. See to the broadcloth and velvet that the rogues bear upon\ntheir backs! By my troth! if they were my subjects they would be glad\nenough to wear falding and leather ere I had done with them. But mayhap\nit is best to let the wool grow long ere you clip it.\"\n\n\"It is our pride,\" the prince answered coldly, \"that we rule over\nfreemen and not slaves.\"\n\n\"Every man to his own humor,\" said Pedro carelessly. \"Carajo! there is a\nsweet face at yonder window! Don Fernando, I pray you to mark the house,\nand to have the maid brought to us at the abbey.\"\n\n\"Nay, brother, nay!\" cried the prince impatiently. \"I have had occasion\nto tell you more than once that things are not ordered in this way in\nAquitaine.\"\n\n\"A thousand pardons, dear friend,\" the Spaniard answered quickly, for a\nflush of anger had sprung to the dark cheek of the English prince. \"You\nmake my exile so like a home that I forget at times that I am not in\nvery truth back in Castile. Every land hath indeed its ways and manners;\nbut I promise you, Edward, that when you are my guest in Toledo or\nMadrid you shall not yearn in vain for any commoner's daughter on whom\nyou may deign to cast your eye.\"\n\n\"Your talk, sire,\" said the prince still more coldly, \"is not such as\nI love to hear from your lips. I have no taste for such amours as you\nspeak of, and I have sworn that my name shall be coupled with that of no\nwoman save my ever dear wife.\"\n\n\"Ever the mirror of true chivalry!\" exclaimed Pedro, while James of\nMajorca, frightened at the stern countenance of their all-powerful\nprotector, plucked hard at the mantle of his brother exile.\n\n\"Have a care, cousin,\" he whispered; \"for the sake of the Virgin have a\ncare, for you have angered him.\"\n\n\"Pshaw! fear not,\" the other answered in the same low tone. \"If I miss\none stoop I will strike him on the next. Mark me else. Fair cousin,\" he\ncontinued, turning to the prince, \"these be rare men-at-arms and lusty\nbowmen. It would be hard indeed to match them.\"\n\n\"They have journeyed far, sire, but they have never yet found their\nmatch.\"\n\n\"Nor ever will, I doubt not. I feel myself to be back upon my throne\nwhen I look at them. But tell me, dear coz, what shall we do next,\nwhen we have driven this bastard Henry from the kingdom which he hath\nfilched?\"\n\n\"We shall then compel the King of Aragon to place our good friend and\nbrother James of Majorca upon the throne.\"\n\n\"Noble and generous prince!\" cried the little monarch.\n\n\"That done,\" said King Pedro, glancing out of the corners of his eyes\nat the young conqueror, \"we shall unite the forces of England, of\nAquitaine, of Spain and of Majorca. It would be shame to us if we did\nnot do some great deed with such forces ready to our hand.\"\n\n\"You say truly, brother,\" cried the prince, his eyes kindling at the\nthought. \"Methinks that we could not do anything more pleasing to Our\nLady than to drive the heathen Moors out of the country.\"\n\n\"I am with you, Edward, as true as hilt to blade. But, by St. James!\nwe shall not let these Moors make mock at us from over the sea. We must\ntake ship and thrust them from Africa.\"\n\n\"By heaven, yes!\" cried the prince. \"And it is the dream of my heart\nthat our English pennons shall wave upon the Mount of Olives, and the\nlions and lilies float over the holy city.\"\n\n\"And why not, dear coz? Your bowmen have cleared a path to Paris, and\nwhy not to Jerusalem? Once there, your arms might rest.\"\n\n\"Nay, there is more to be done,\" cried the prince, carried away by the\nambitious dream. \"There is still the city of Constantine to be taken,\nand war to be waged against the Soldan of Damascus. And beyond him again\nthere is tribute to be levied from the Cham of Tartary and from the\nkingdom of Cathay. Ha! John, what say you? Can we not go as far eastward\nas Richard of the Lion Heart?\"\n\n\"Old John will bide at home, sire,\" said the rugged soldier. \"By my\nsoul! as long as I am seneschal of Aquitaine I will find enough to do\nin guarding the marches which you have entrusted to me. It would be\na blithe day for the King of France when he heard that the seas lay\nbetween him and us.\"\n\n\"By my soul! John,\" said the prince, \"I have never known you turn\nlaggard before.\"\n\n\"The babbling hound, sire, is not always the first at the mort,\" the old\nknight answered.\n\n\"Nay, my true-heart! I have tried you too often not to know. But, by my\nsoul! I have not seen so dense a throng since the day that we brought\nKing John down Cheapside.\"\n\nIt was indeed an enormous crowd which covered the whole vast plain from\nthe line of vineyards to the river bank. From the northern gate the\nprince and his companions looked down at a dark sea of heads, brightened\nhere and there by the colored hoods of the women, or by the sparkling\nhead-pieces of archers and men-at-arms. In the centre of this vast\nassemblage the lists seemed but a narrow strip of green marked out with\nbanners and streamers, while a gleam of white with a flutter of pennons\nat either end showed where the marquees were pitched which served as the\ndressing-rooms of the combatants. A path had been staked off from the\ncity gate to the stands which had been erected for the court and the\nnobility. Down this, amid the shouts of the enormous multitude, the\nprince cantered with his two attendant kings, his high officers of\nstate, and his long train of lords and ladies, courtiers, counsellors,\nand soldiers, with toss of plume and flash of jewel, sheen of silk and\nglint of gold--as rich and gallant a show as heart could wish. The head\nof the cavalcade had reached the lists ere the rear had come clear of\nthe city gate, for the fairest and the bravest had assembled from all\nthe broad lands which are watered by the Dordogne and the Garonne. Here\nrode dark-browed cavaliers from the sunny south, fiery soldiers from\nGascony, graceful courtiers of Limousin or Saintonge, and gallant young\nEnglishmen from beyond the seas. Here too were the beautiful brunettes\nof the Gironde, with eyes which out-flashed their jewels, while beside\nthem rode their blonde sisters of England, clear cut and aquiline,\nswathed in swans'-down and in ermine, for the air was biting though\nthe sun was bright. Slowly the long and glittering train wound into the\nlists, until every horse had been tethered by the varlets in waiting,\nand every lord and lady seated in the long stands which stretched, rich\nin tapestry and velvet and blazoned arms, on either side of the centre\nof the arena.\n\nThe holders of the lists occupied the end which was nearest to the city\ngate. There, in front of their respective pavilions, flew the martlets\nof Audley, the roses of Loring, the scarlet bars of Wake, the lion of\nthe Percies and the silver wings of the Beauchamps, each supported by\na squire clad in hanging green stuff to represent so many Tritons, and\nbearing a huge conch-shell in their left hands. Behind the tents the\ngreat war-horses, armed at all points, champed and reared, while their\nmasters sat at the doors of their pavilions, with their helmets upon\ntheir knees, chatting as to the order of the day's doings. The English\narchers and men-at-arms had mustered at that end of the lists, but the\nvast majority of the spectators were in favor of the attacking party,\nfor the English had declined in popularity ever since the bitter dispute\nas to the disposal of the royal captive after the battle of Poictiers.\nHence the applause was by no means general when the herald-at-arms\nproclaimed, after a flourish of trumpets, the names and styles of the\nknights who were prepared, for the honor of their country and for the\nlove of their ladies, to hold the field against all who might do them\nthe favor to run a course with them. On the other hand, a deafening\nburst of cheering greeted the rival herald, who, advancing from the\nother end of the lists, rolled forth the well-known titles of the five\nfamous warriors who had accepted the defiance.\n\n\"Faith, John,\" said the prince, \"it sounds as though you were right.\nHa! my grace D'Armagnac, it seems that our friends on this side will not\ngrieve if our English champions lose the day.\"\n\n\"It may be so, sire,\" the Gascon nobleman answered. \"I have little doubt\nthat in Smithfield or at Windsor an English crowd would favor their own\ncountrymen.\"\n\n\"By my faith! that's easily seen,\" said the prince, laughing, \"for a few\nscore English archers at yonder end are bellowing as though they would\nout-shout the mighty multitude. I fear that they will have little to\nshout over this tourney, for my gold vase has small prospect of crossing\nthe water. What are the conditions, John?\"\n\n\"They are to tilt singly not less than three courses, sire, and the\nvictory to rest with that party which shall have won the greater number\nof courses, each pair continuing till one or other have the vantage. He\nwho carries himself best of the victors hath the prize, and he who is\njudged best of the other party hath a jewelled clasp. Shall I order that\nthe nakirs sound, sire?\"\n\nThe prince nodded, and the trumpets rang out, while the champions rode\nforth one after the other, each meeting his opponent in the centre of\nthe lists. Sir William Beauchamp went down before the practiced lance\nof the Captal de Buch. Sir Thomas Percy won the vantage over the Lord\nof Mucident, and the Lord Audley struck Sir Perducas d'Albret from\nthe saddle. The burly De Clisson, however, restored the hopes of the\nattackers by beating to the ground Sir Thomas Wake of Yorkshire. So far,\nthere was little to choose betwixt challengers and challenged.\n\n\"By Saint James of Santiago!\" cried Don Pedro, with a tinge of color\nupon his pale cheeks, \"win who will, this has been a most notable\ncontest.\"\n\n\"Who comes next for England, John?\" asked the prince in a voice which\nquivered with excitement.\n\n\"Sir Nigel Loring of Hampshire, sire.\"\n\n\"Ha! he is a man of good courage, and skilled in the use of all\nweapons.\"\n\n\"He is indeed, sire. But his eyes, like my own, are the worse for wars.\nYet he can tilt or play his part at hand-strokes as merrily as ever. It\nwas he, sire, who won the golden crown which Queen Philippa, your royal\nmother, gave to be jousted for by all the knights of England after\nthe harrying of Calais. I have heard that at Twynham Castle there is a\nbuffet which groans beneath the weight of his prizes.\"\n\n\"I pray that my vase may join them,\" said the prince. \"But here is the\ncavalier of Germany, and by my soul! he looks like a man of great valor\nand hardiness. Let them run their full three courses, for the issue is\nover-great to hang upon one.\"\n\nAs the prince spoke, amid a loud flourish of trumpets and the shouting\nof the Gascon party, the last of the assailants rode gallantly into the\nlists. He was a man of great size, clad in black armor without blazonry\nor ornament of any kind, for all worldly display was forbidden by the\nrules of the military brotherhood to which he belonged. No plume or\nnobloy fluttered from his plain tilting salade, and even his lance was\ndevoid of the customary banderole. A white mantle fluttered behind him,\nupon the left side of which was marked the broad black cross picked\nout with silver which was the well-known badge of the Teutonic Order.\nMounted upon a horse as large, as black, and as forbidding as himself,\nhe cantered slowly forward, with none of those prancings and gambades\nwith which a cavalier was accustomed to show his command over his\ncharger. Gravely and sternly he inclined his head to the prince, and\ntook his place at the further end of the arena.\n\nHe had scarce done so before Sir Nigel rode out from the holders'\nenclosure, and galloping at full speed down the lists, drew his charger\nup before the prince's stand with a jerk which threw it back upon\nits haunches. With white armor, blazoned shield, and plume of\nostrich-feathers from his helmet, he carried himself in so jaunty and\njoyous a fashion, with tossing pennon and curveting charger, that a\nshout of applause ran the full circle of the arena. With the air of a\nman who hastes to a joyous festival, he waved his lance in salute, and\nreining the pawing horse round without permitting its fore-feet to touch\nthe ground, he hastened back to his station.\n\nA great hush fell over the huge multitude as the two last champions\nfaced each other. A double issue seemed to rest upon their contest, for\ntheir personal fame was at stake as well as their party's honor. Both\nwere famous warriors, but as their exploits had been performed in widely\nsundered countries, they had never before been able to cross lances. A\ncourse between such men would have been enough in itself to cause the\nkeenest interest, apart from its being the crisis which would decide who\nshould be the victors of the day. For a moment they waited--the German\nsombre and collected, Sir Nigel quivering in every fibre with\neagerness and fiery resolution. Then, amid a long-drawn breath from\nthe spectators, the glove fell from the marshal's hand, and the two\nsteel-clad horsemen met like a thunderclap in front of the royal stand.\nThe German, though he reeled for an instant before the thrust of the\nEnglishman, struck his opponent so fairly upon the vizor that the laces\nburst, the plumed helmet flew to pieces, and Sir Nigel galloped on down\nthe lists with his bald head shimmering in the sunshine. A thousand\nwaving scarves and tossing caps announced that the first bout had fallen\nto the popular party.\n\nThe Hampshire knight was not a man to be disheartened by a reverse. He\nspurred back to the pavilion, and was out in a few instants with another\nhelmet. The second course was so equal that the keenest judges could not\ndiscern any vantage. Each struck fire from the other's shield, and each\nendured the jarring shock as though welded to the horse beneath him. In\nthe final bout, however, Sir Nigel struck his opponent with so true an\naim that the point of the lance caught between the bars of his vizor and\ntore the front of his helmet out, while the German, aiming somewhat\nlow, and half stunned by the shock, had the misfortune to strike his\nadversary upon the thigh, a breach of the rules of the tilting-yard, by\nwhich he not only sacrificed his chances of success, but would also\nhave forfeited his horse and his armor, had the English knight chosen\nto claim them. A roar of applause from the English soldiers, with an\nominous silence from the vast crowd who pressed round the barriers,\nannounced that the balance of victory lay with the holders. Already the\nten champions had assembled in front of the prince to receive his award,\nwhen a harsh bugle call from the further end of the lists drew all eyes\nto a new and unexpected arrival.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV. HOW A CHAMPION CAME FORTH FROM THE EAST.\n\n\nThe Bordeaux lists were, as has already been explained, situated\nupon the plain near the river upon those great occasions when the\ntilting-ground in front of the Abbey of St. Andrew's was deemed to be\ntoo small to contain the crowd. On the eastern side of this plain the\ncountry-side sloped upwards, thick with vines in summer, but now ridged\nwith the brown bare enclosures. Over the gently rising plain curved the\nwhite road which leads inland, usually flecked with travellers, but now\nwith scarce a living form upon it, so completely had the lists drained\nall the district of its inhabitants. Strange it was to see such a vast\nconcourse of people, and then to look upon that broad, white, empty\nhighway which wound away, bleak and deserted, until it narrowed itself\nto a bare streak against the distant uplands.\n\nShortly after the contest had begun, any one looking from the lists\nalong this road might have remarked, far away in the extreme distance,\ntwo brilliant and sparkling points which glittered and twinkled in\nthe bright shimmer of the winter sun. Within an hour these had become\nclearer and nearer, until they might be seen to come from the reflection\nfrom the head-pieces of two horsemen who were riding at the top of their\nspeed in the direction of Bordeaux. Another half-hour had brought\nthem so close that every point of their bearing and equipment could be\ndiscerned. The first was a knight in full armor, mounted upon a brown\nhorse with a white blaze upon breast and forehead. He was a short man of\ngreat breadth of shoulder, with vizor closed, and no blazonry upon his\nsimple white surcoat or plain black shield. The other, who was evidently\nhis squire and attendant, was unarmed save for the helmet upon his\nhead, but bore in his right hand a very long and heavy oaken spear which\nbelonged to his master. In his left hand the squire held not only the\nreins of his own horse but those of a great black war-horse, fully\nharnessed, which trotted along at his side. Thus the three horses and\ntheir two riders rode swiftly to the lists, and it was the blare of the\ntrumpet sounded by the squire as his lord rode into the arena which\nhad broken in upon the prize-giving and drawn away the attention and\ninterest of the spectators.\n\n\"Ha, John!\" cried the prince, craning his neck, \"who is this cavalier,\nand what is it that he desires?\"\n\n\"On my word, sire,\" replied Chandos, with the utmost surprise upon his\nface, \"it is my opinion that he is a Frenchman.\"\n\n\"A Frenchman!\" repeated Don Pedro. \"And how can you tell that, my Lord\nChandos, when he has neither coat-armor, crest, or blazonry?\"\n\n\"By his armor, sire, which is rounder at elbow and at shoulder than any\nof Bordeaux or of England. Italian he might be were his bassinet more\nsloped, but I will swear that those plates were welded betwixt this and\nRhine. Here comes his squire, however, and we shall hear what strange\nfortune hath brought him over the marches.\"\n\nAs he spoke the attendant cantered up the grassy enclosure, and pulling\nup his steed in front of the royal stand, blew a second fanfare upon\nhis bugle. He was a raw-boned, swarthy-cheeked man, with black bristling\nbeard and a swaggering bearing.\n\nHaving sounded his call, he thrust the bugle into his belt, and, pushing\nhis way betwixt the groups of English and of Gascon knights, he reined\nup within a spear's length of the royal party.\n\n\"I come,\" he shouted in a hoarse, thick voice, with a strong Breton\naccent, \"as squire and herald from my master, who is a very valiant\npursuivant-of-arms, and a liegeman to the great and powerful monarch,\nCharles, king of the French. My master has heard that there is jousting\nhere, and prospect of honorable advancement, so he has come to ask that\nsome English cavalier will vouchsafe for the love of his lady to run a\ncourse with sharpened lances with him, or to meet him with sword, mace,\nbattle-axe, or dagger. He bade me say, however, that he would fight only\nwith a true Englishman, and not with any mongrel who is neither English\nnor French, but speaks with the tongue of the one, and fights under the\nbanner of the other.\"\n\n\"Sir!\" cried De Clisson, with a voice of thunder, while his countrymen\nclapped their hands to their swords. The squire, however, took no notice\nof their angry faces, but continued with his master's message.\n\n\"He is now ready, sire,\" he said, \"albeit his destrier has travelled\nmany miles this day, and fast, for we were in fear lest we come too late\nfor the jousting.\"\n\n\"Ye have indeed come too late,\" said the prince, \"seeing that the prize\nis about to be awarded; yet I doubt not that one of these gentlemen will\nrun a course for the sake of honor with this cavalier of France.\"\n\n\"And as to the prize, sire,\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"I am sure that I speak\nfor all when I say this French knight hath our leave to bear it away\nwith him if he can fairly win it.\"\n\n\"Bear word of this to your master,\" said the prince, \"and ask him which\nof these five Englishmen he would desire to meet. But stay; your master\nbears no coat-armor, and we have not yet heard his name.\"\n\n\"My master, sire, is under vow to the Virgin neither to reveal his name\nnor to open his vizor until he is back upon French ground once more.\"\n\n\"Yet what assurance have we,\" said the prince, \"that this is not some\nvarlet masquerading in his master's harness, or some caitiff knight,\nthe very touch of whose lance might bring infamy upon an honorable\ngentleman?\"\n\n\"It is not so, sire,\" cried the squire earnestly. \"There is no man upon\nearth who would demean himself by breaking a lance with my master.\"\n\n\"You speak out boldly, squire,\" the prince answered; \"but unless I have\nsome further assurance of your master's noble birth and gentle name I\ncannot match the choicest lances of my court against him.\"\n\n\"You refuse, sire?\"\n\n\"I do refuse.\"\n\n\"Then, sire, I was bidden to ask you from my master whether you would\nconsent if Sir John Chandos, upon hearing my master's name, should\nassure you that he was indeed a man with whom you might yourself cross\nswords without indignity.\"\n\n\"I ask no better,\" said the prince.\n\n\"Then I must ask, Lord Chandos, that you will step forth. I have your\npledge that the name shall remain ever a secret, and that you will\nneither say nor write one word which might betray it. The name is----\"\nHe stooped down from his horse and whispered something into the old\nknight's ear which made him start with surprise, and stare with much\ncuriosity at the distant Knight, who was sitting his charger at the\nfurther end of the arena.\n\n\"Is this indeed sooth?\" he exclaimed.\n\n\"It is, my lord, and I swear it by St. Ives of Brittany.\"\n\n\"I might have known it,\" said Chandos, twisting his moustache, and still\nlooking thoughtfully at the cavalier.\n\n\"What then, Sir John?\" asked the prince.\n\n\"Sire, this is a knight whom it is indeed great honor to meet, and I\nwould that your grace would grant me leave to send my squire for my\nharness, for I would dearly love to run a course with him.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Sir John, you have gained as much honor as one man can bear,\nand it were hard if you could not rest now. But I pray you, squire, to\ntell your master that he is very welcome to our court, and that wines\nand spices will be served him, if he would refresh himself before\njousting.\"\n\n\"My master will not drink,\" said the squire.\n\n\"Let him then name the gentleman with whom he would break a spear.\"\n\n\"He would contend with these five knights, each to choose such weapons\nas suit him best.\"\n\n\"I perceive,\" said the prince, \"that your master is a man of great heart\nand high of enterprise. But the sun already is low in the west, and\nthere will scarce be light for these courses. I pray you, gentlemen, to\ntake your places, that we may see whether this stranger's deeds are as\nbold as his words.\"\n\nThe unknown knight had sat like a statue of steel, looking neither to\nthe right nor to the left during these preliminaries. He had changed\nfrom the horse upon which he had ridden, and bestrode the black charger\nwhich his squire had led beside him. His immense breadth, his stern\ncomposed appearance, and the mode in which he handled his shield and his\nlance, were enough in themselves to convince the thousands of critical\nspectators that he was a dangerous opponent. Aylward, who stood in\nthe front row of the archers with Simon, big John, and others of the\nCompany, had been criticising the proceedings from the commencement with\nthe ease and freedom of a man who had spent his life under arms and had\nlearned in a hard school to know at a glance the points of a horse and\nhis rider. He stared now at the stranger with a wrinkled brow and the\nair of a man who is striving to stir his memory.\n\n\"By my hilt! I have seen the thick body of him before to-day. Yet I\ncannot call to mind where it could have been. At Nogent belike, or was\nit at Auray? Mark me, lads, this man will prove to be one of the best\nlances of France, and there are no better in the world.\"\n\n\"It is but child's play, this poking game,\" said John. \"I would fain\ntry my hand at it, for, by the black rood! I think that it might be\namended.\"\n\n\"What then would you do, John?\" asked several.\n\n\"There are many things which might be done,\" said the forester\nthoughtfully. \"Methinks that I would begin by breaking my spear.\"\n\n\"So they all strive to do.\"\n\n\"Nay, but not upon another man's shield. I would break it over my own\nknee.\"\n\n\"And what the better for that, old beef and bones?\" asked Black Simon.\n\n\"So I would turn what is but a lady's bodkin of a weapon into a very\nhandsome club.\"\n\n\"And then, John?\"\n\n\"Then I would take the other's spear into my arm or my leg, or where\nit pleased him best to put it, and I would dash out his brains with my\nclub.\"\n\n\"By my ten finger-bones! old John,\" said Aylward, \"I would give my\nfeather-bed to see you at a spear-running. This is a most courtly and\ngentle sport which you have devised.\"\n\n\"So it seems to me,\" said John seriously. \"Or, again, one might seize\nthe other round the middle, pluck him off his horse and bear him to the\npavilion, there to hold him to ransom.\"\n\n\"Good!\" cried Simon, amid a roar of laughter from all the archers round.\n\"By Thomas of Kent! we shall make a camp-marshal of thee, and thou\nshalt draw up rules for our jousting. But, John, who is it that you\nwould uphold in this knightly and pleasing fashion?\"\n\n\"What mean you?\"\n\n\"Why, John, so strong and strange a tilter must fight for the brightness\nof his lady's eyes or the curve of her eyelash, even as Sir Nigel does\nfor the Lady Loring.\"\n\n\"I know not about that,\" said the big archer, scratching his head in\nperplexity. \"Since Mary hath played me false, I can scarce fight for\nher.\"\n\n\"Yet any woman will serve.\"\n\n\"There is my mother then,\" said John. \"She was at much pains at my\nupbringing, and, by my soul! I will uphold the curve of her eyelashes,\nfor it tickleth my very heart-root to think of her. But who is here?\"\n\n\"It is Sir William Beauchamp. He is a valiant man, but I fear that he is\nscarce firm enough upon the saddle to bear the thrust of such a tilter\nas this stranger promises to be.\"\n\nAylward's words were speedily justified, for even as he spoke the two\nknights met in the centre of the lists. Beauchamp struck his opponent a\nshrewd blow upon the helmet, but was met with so frightful a thrust that\nhe whirled out of his saddle and rolled over and over upon the ground.\nSir Thomas Percy met with little better success, for his shield was\nsplit, his vambrace torn and he himself wounded slightly in the side.\nLord Audley and the unknown knight struck each other fairly upon the\nhelmet; but, while the stranger sat as firm and rigid as ever upon his\ncharger, the Englishman was bent back to his horse's cropper by the\nweight of the blow, and had galloped half-way down the lists ere he\ncould recover himself. Sir Thomas Wake was beaten to the ground with a\nbattle-axe--that being the weapon which he had selected--and had to be\ncarried to his pavilion. These rapid successes, gained one after the\nother over four celebrated warriors, worked the crowd up to a pitch of\nwonder and admiration. Thunders of applause from the English soldiers,\nas well as from the citizens and peasants, showed how far the love of\nbrave and knightly deeds could rise above the rivalries of race.\n\n\"By my soul! John,\" cried the prince, with his cheek flushed and his\neyes shining, \"this is a man of good courage and great hardiness. I\ncould not have thought that there was any single arm upon earth which\ncould have overthrown these four champions.\"\n\n\"He is indeed, as I have said, sire, a knight from whom much honor is to\nbe gained. But the lower edge of the sun is wet, and it will be beneath\nthe sea ere long.\"\n\n\"Here is Sir Nigel Loring, on foot and with his sword,\" said the prince.\n\"I have heard that he is a fine swordsman.\"\n\n\"The finest in your army, sire,\" Chandos answered. \"Yet I doubt not that\nhe will need all his skill this day.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the two combatants advanced from either end in full armor\nwith their two-handed swords sloping over their shoulders. The stranger\nwalked heavily and with a measured stride, while the English knight\nadvanced as briskly as though there was no iron shell to weigh down the\nfreedom of his limbs. At four paces distance they stopped, eyed each\nother for a moment, and then in an instant fell to work with a clatter\nand clang as though two sturdy smiths were busy upon their anvils. Up\nand down went the long, shining blades, round and round they circled in\ncurves of glimmering light, crossing, meeting, disengaging, with flash\nof sparks at every parry. Here and there bounded Sir Nigel, his head\nerect, his jaunty plume fluttering in the air, while his dark opponent\nsent in crashing blow upon blow, following fiercely up with cut and with\nthrust, but never once getting past the practised blade of the skilled\nswordsman. The crowd roared with delight as Sir Nigel would stoop his\nhead to avoid a blow, or by some slight movement of his body allow some\nterrible thrust to glance harmlessly past him. Suddenly, however, his\ntime came. The Frenchman, whirling up his sword, showed for an instant\na chink betwixt his shoulder piece and the rerebrace which guarded his\nupper arm. In dashed Sir Nigel, and out again so swiftly that the eye\ncould not follow the quick play of his blade, but a trickle of blood\nfrom the stranger's shoulder, and a rapidly widening red smudge upon his\nwhite surcoat, showed where the thrust had taken effect. The wound was,\nhowever, but a slight one, and the Frenchman was about to renew his\nonset, when, at a sign from the prince, Chandos threw down his baton,\nand the marshals of the lists struck up the weapons and brought the\ncontest to an end.\n\n\"It were time to check it,\" said the prince, smiling, \"for Sir Nigel is\ntoo good a man for me to lose, and, by the five holy wounds! if one of\nthose cuts came home I should have fears for our champion. What think\nyou, Pedro?\"\n\n\"I think, Edward, that the little man was very well able to take care of\nhimself. For my part, I should wish to see so well matched a pair fight\non while a drop of blood remained in their veins.\"\n\n\"We must have speech with him. Such a man must not go from my court\nwithout rest or sup. Bring him hither, Chandos, and, certes, if the Lord\nLoring hath resigned his claim upon this goblet, it is right and proper\nthat this cavalier should carry it to France with him as a sign of the\nprowess that he has shown this day.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the knight-errant, who had remounted his warhorse, galloped\nforward to the royal stand, with a silken kerchief bound round his\nwounded arm. The setting sun cast a ruddy glare upon his burnished\narms, and sent his long black shadow streaming behind him up the level\nclearing. Pulling up his steed, he slightly inclined his head, and\nsat in the stern and composed fashion with which he had borne himself\nthroughout, heedless of the applauding shouts and the flutter of\nkerchiefs from the long lines of brave men and of fair women who were\nlooking down upon him.\n\n\"Sir knight,\" said the prince, \"we have all marvelled this day at this\ngreat skill and valor with which God has been pleased to endow you.\nI would fain that you should tarry at our court, for a time at least,\nuntil your hurt is healed and your horses rested.\"\n\n\"My hurt is nothing, sire, nor are my horses weary,\" returned the\nstranger in a deep, stern voice.\n\n\"Will you not at least hie back to Bordeaux with us, that you may drain\na cup of muscadine and sup at our table?\"\n\n\"I will neither drink your wine nor sit at your table,\" returned the\nother. \"I bear no love for you or for your race, and there is nought\nthat I wish at your hands until the day when I see the last sail which\nbears you back to your island vanishing away against the western sky.\"\n\n\"These are bitter words, sir knight,\" said Prince Edward, with an angry\nfrown.\n\n\"And they come from a bitter heart,\" answered the unknown knight. \"How\nlong is it since there has been peace in my hapless country? Where are\nthe steadings, and orchards, and vineyards, which made France fair?\nWhere are the cities which made her great? From Providence to Burgundy\nwe are beset by every prowling hireling in Christendom, who rend and\ntear the country which you have left too weak to guard her own marches.\nIs it not a by-word that a man may ride all day in that unhappy land\nwithout seeing thatch upon roof or hearing the crow of cock? Does not\none fair kingdom content you, that you should strive so for this other\none which has no love for you? Pardieu! a true Frenchman's words may\nwell be bitter, for bitter is his lot and bitter his thoughts as he\nrides through his thrice unhappy country.\"\n\n\"Sir knight,\" said the prince, \"you speak like a brave man, and our\ncousin of France is happy in having a cavalier who is so fit to uphold\nhis cause either with tongue or with sword. But if you think such evil\nof us, how comes it that you have trusted yourselves to us without\nwarranty or safe-conduct?\"\n\n\"Because I knew that you would be here, sire. Had the man who sits upon\nyour right been ruler of this land, I had indeed thought twice before I\nlooked to him for aught that was knightly or generous.\" With a soldierly\nsalute, he wheeled round his horse, and, galloping down the lists,\ndisappeared amid the dense crowd of footmen and of horsemen who were\nstreaming away from the scene of the tournament.\n\n\"The insolent villain!\" cried Pedro, glaring furiously after him. \"I\nhave seen a man's tongue torn from his jaws for less. Would it not be\nwell even now, Edward, to send horsemen to hale him back? Bethink you\nthat it may be one of the royal house of France, or at least some knight\nwhose loss would be a heavy blow to his master. Sir William Felton, you\nare well mounted, gallop after the caitiff, I pray you.\"\n\n\"Do so, Sir William,\" said the prince, \"and give him this purse of a\nhundred nobles as a sign of the respect which I bear for him; for,\nby St. George! he has served his master this day even as I would wish\nliegeman of mine to serve me.\" So saying, the prince turned his back\nupon the King of Spain, and springing upon his horse, rode slowly\nhomewards to the Abbey of Saint Andrew's.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV. HOW SIR NIGEL WROTE TO TWYNHAM CASTLE.\n\n\nOn the morning after the jousting, when Alleyne Edricson went, as was\nhis custom, into his master's chamber to wait upon him in his dressing\nand to curl his hair, he found him already up and very busily at work.\nHe sat at a table by the window, a deer-hound on one side of him and a\nlurcher on the other, his feet tucked away under the trestle on which\nhe sat, and his tongue in his cheek, with the air of a man who is much\nperplexed. A sheet of vellum lay upon the board in front of him, and\nhe held a pen in his hand, with which he had been scribbling in a rude\nschoolboy hand. So many were the blots, however, and so numerous the\nscratches and erasures, that he had at last given it up in despair, and\nsat with his single uncovered eye cocked upwards at the ceiling, as one\nwho waits upon inspiration.\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" he cried, as Alleyne entered, \"you are the man who will\nstand by me in this matter. I have been in sore need of you, Alleyne.\"\n\n\"God be with you, my fair lord!\" the squire answered. \"I trust that you\nhave taken no hurt from all that you have gone through yesterday.\"\n\n\"Nay; I feel the fresher for it, Alleyne. It has eased my joints, which\nwere somewhat stiff from these years of peace. I trust, Alleyne, that\nthou didst very carefully note and mark the bearing and carriage of\nthis knight of France; for it is time, now when you are young, that you\nshould see all that is best, and mould your own actions in accordance.\nThis was a man from whom much honor might be gained, and I have seldom\nmet any one for whom I have conceived so much love and esteem. Could\nI but learn his name, I should send you to him with my cartel, that we\nmight have further occasion to watch his goodly feats of arms.\"\n\n\"It is said, my fair lord, that none know his name save only the Lord\nChandos, and that he is under vow not to speak it. So ran the gossip at\nthe squires' table.\"\n\n\"Be he who he might, he was a very hardy gentleman. But I have a task\nhere, Alleyne, which is harder to me than aught that was set before me\nyesterday.\"\n\n\"Can I help you, my lord?\"\n\n\"That indeed you can. I have been writing my greetings to my sweet wife;\nfor I hear that a messenger goes from the prince to Southampton within\nthe week, and he would gladly take a packet for me. I pray you, Alleyne,\nto cast your eyes upon what I have written, and see it they are such\nwords as my lady will understand. My fingers, as you can see, are more\nused to iron and leather than to the drawing of strokes and turning of\nletters. What then? Is there aught amiss, that you should stare so?\"\n\n\"It is this first word, my lord. In what tongue were you pleased to\nwrite?\"\n\n\"In English; for my lady talks it more than she doth French.\n\n\"Yet this is no English word, my sweet lord. Here are four t's and never\na letter betwixt them.\"\n\n\"By St. Paul! it seemed strange to my eye when I wrote it,\" said Sir\nNigel. \"They bristle up together like a clump of lances. We must break\ntheir ranks and set them farther apart. The word is 'that.' Now I will\nread it to you, Alleyne, and you shall write it out fair; for we leave\nBordeaux this day, and it would be great joy to me to think that the\nLady Loring had word from me.\"\n\nAlleyne sat down as ordered, with a pen in his hand and a fresh sheet\nof parchment before him, while Sir Nigel slowly spelled out his letter,\nrunning his forefinger on from word to word.\n\n\"That my heart is with thee, my dear sweeting, is what thine own heart\nwill assure thee of. All is well with us here, save that Pepin hath\nthe mange on his back, and Pommers hath scarce yet got clear of his\nstiffness from being four days on ship-board, and the more so because\nthe sea was very high, and we were like to founder on account of a hole\nin her side, which was made by a stone cast at us by certain sea-rovers,\nwho may the saints have in their keeping, for they have gone from\namongst us, as has young Terlake, and two-score mariners and archers,\nwho would be the more welcome here as there is like to be a very fine\nwar, with much honor and all hopes of advancement, for which I go to\ngather my Company together, who are now at Montaubon, where they pillage\nand destroy; yet I hope that, by God's help, I may be able to show that\nI am their master, even as, my sweet lady, I am thy servant.\"\n\n\"How of that, Alleyne?\" continued Sir Nigel, blinking at his squire,\nwith an expression of some pride upon his face. \"Have I not told her all\nthat hath befallen us?\"\n\n\"You have said much, my fair lord; and yet, if I may say so, it is\nsomewhat crowded together, so that my Lady Loring can, mayhap, scarce\nfollow it. Were it in shorter periods----\"\n\n\"Nay, it boots me not how you marshal them, as long as they are all\nthere at the muster. Let my lady have the words, and she will place\nthem in such order as pleases her best. But I would have you add what it\nwould please her to know.\"\n\n\"That will I,\" said Alleyne, blithely, and bent to the task.\n\n\"My fair lady and mistress,\" he wrote, \"God hath had us in His keeping,\nand my lord is well and in good cheer. He hath won much honor at the\njousting before the prince, when he alone was able to make it good\nagainst a very valiant man from France. Touching the moneys, there is\nenough and to spare until we reach Montaubon. Herewith, my fair lady,\nI send my humble regards, entreating you that you will give the same\nto your daughter, the Lady Maude. May the holy saints have you both in\ntheir keeping is ever the prayer of thy servant,\n\n        \"ALLEYNE EDRICSON.\"\n\n\"That is very fairly set forth,\" said Sir Nigel, nodding his bald head\nas each sentence was read to him. \"And for thyself, Alleyne, if there be\nany dear friend to whom you would fain give greeting, I can send it for\nthee within this packet.\"\n\n\"There is none,\" said Alleyne, sadly.\n\n\"Have you no kinsfolk, then?\"\n\n\"None, save my brother.\"\n\n\"Ha! I had forgotten that there was ill blood betwixt you. But are there\nnone in all England who love thee?\"\n\n\"None that I dare say so.\"\n\n\"And none whom you love?\"\n\n\"Nay, I will not say that,\" said Alleyne.\n\nSir Nigel shook his head and laughed softly to himself, \"I see how it\nis with you,\" he said. \"Have I not noted your frequent sighs and vacant\neye? Is she fair?\"\n\n\"She is indeed,\" cried Alleyne from his heart, all tingling at this\nsudden turn of the talk.\n\n\"And good?\"\n\n\"As an angel.\"\n\n\"And yet she loves you not?\"\n\n\"Nay, I cannot say that she loves another.\"\n\n\"Then you have hopes?\"\n\n\"I could not live else.\"\n\n\"Then must you strive to be worthy of her love. Be brave and pure,\nfearless to the strong and humble to the weak; and so, whether this love\nprosper or no, you will have fitted yourself to be honored by a maiden's\nlove, which is, in sooth, the highest guerdon which a true knight can\nhope for.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my lord, I do so strive,\" said Alleyne; \"but she is so sweet,\nso dainty, and of so noble a spirit, that I fear me that I shall never\nbe worthy of her.\"\n\n\"By thinking so you become worthy. Is she then of noble birth?\"\n\n\"She is, my lord,\" faltered Alleyne.\n\n\"Of a knightly house?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Have a care, Alleyne, have a care!\" said Sir Nigel, kindly. \"The higher\nthe steed the greater the fall. Hawk not at that which may be beyond thy\nflight.\"\n\n\"My lord, I know little of the ways and usages of the world,\" cried\nAlleyne, \"but I would fain ask your rede upon the matter. You have known\nmy father and my kin: is not my family one of good standing and repute?\"\n\n\"Beyond all question.\"\n\n\"And yet you warn me that I must not place my love too high.\"\n\n\"Were Minstead yours, Alleyne, then, by St. Paul! I cannot think that\nany family in the land would not be proud to take you among them, seeing\nthat you come of so old a strain. But while the Socman lives----Ha, by\nmy soul! if this is not Sir Oliver's step I am the more mistaken.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a heavy footfall was heard without, and the portly knight\nflung open the door and strode into the room.\n\n\"Why, my little coz,\" said he, \"I have come across to tell you that\nI live above the barber's in the Rue de la Tour, and that there is a\nvenison pasty in the oven and two flasks of the right vintage on the\ntable. By St. James! a blind man might find the place, for one has but\nto get in the wind from it, and follow the savory smell. Put on your\ncloak, then, and come, for Sir Walter Hewett and Sir Robert Briquet,\nwith one or two others, are awaiting us.\"\n\n\"Nay, Oliver, I cannot be with you, for I must to Montaubon this day.\"\n\n\"To Montaubon? But I have heard that your Company is to come with my\nforty Winchester rascals to Dax.\"\n\n\"If you will take charge of them, Oliver. For I will go to Montaubon\nwith none save my two squires and two archers. Then, when I have found\nthe rest of my Company I shall lead them to Dax. We set forth this\nmorning.\"\n\n\"Then I must back to my pasty,\" said Sir Oliver. \"You will find us at\nDax, I doubt not, unless the prince throw me into prison, for he is very\nwroth against me.\"\n\n\"And why, Oliver?\"\n\n\"Pardieu! because I have sent my cartel, gauntlet, and defiance to Sir\nJohn Chandos and to Sir William Felton.\"\n\n\"To Chandos? In God's name, Oliver, why have you done this?\"\n\n\"Because he and the other have used me despitefully.\"\n\n\"And how?\"\n\n\"Because they have passed me over in choosing those who should joust for\nEngland. Yourself and Audley I could pass, coz, for you are mature men;\nbut who are Wake, and Percy, and Beauchamp? By my soul! I was prodding\nfor my food into a camp-kettle when they were howling for their pap. Is\na man of my weight and substance to be thrown aside for the first three\nhalf-grown lads who have learned the trick of the tilt-yard? But hark\nye, coz, I think of sending my cartel also to the prince.\"\n\n\"Oliver! Oliver! You are mad!\"\n\n\"Not I, i' faith! I care not a denier whether he be prince or no. By\nSaint James! I see that your squire's eyes are starting from his head\nlike a trussed crab. Well, friend, we are all three men of Hampshire,\nand not lightly to be jeered at.\"\n\n\"Has he jeered at you than?\"\n\n\"Pardieu! yes, 'Old Sir Oliver's heart is still stout,' said one of his\ncourt. 'Else had it been out of keeping with the rest of him,' quoth the\nprince. 'And his arm is strong,' said another. 'So is the backbone of\nhis horse,' quoth the prince. This very day I will send him my cartel\nand defiance.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, my dear Oliver,\" said Sir Nigel, laying his hand upon his\nangry friend's arm. \"There is naught in this, for it was but saying that\nyou were a strong and robust man, who had need of a good destrier. And\nas to Chandos and Felton, bethink you that if when you yourself were\nyoung the older lances had ever been preferred, how would you then have\nhad the chance to earn the good name and fame which you now bear? You do\nnot ride as light as you did, Oliver, and I ride lighter by the weight\nof my hair, but it would be an ill thing if in the evening of our lives\nwe showed that our hearts were less true and loyal than of old. If such\na knight as Sir Oliver Buttesthorn may turn against his own prince for\nthe sake of a light word, then where are we to look for steadfast faith\nand constancy?\"\n\n\"Ah! my dear little coz, it is easy to sit in the sunshine and preach to\nthe man in the shadow. Yet you could ever win me over to your side with\nthat soft voice of yours. Let us think no more of it then. But, holy\nMother! I had forgot the pasty, and it will be as scorched as Judas\nIscariot! Come, Nigel, lest the foul fiend get the better of me again.\"\n\n\"For one hour, then; for we march at mid-day. Tell Aylward, Alleyne,\nthat he is to come with me to Montaubon, and to choose one archer for\nhis comrade. The rest will to Dax when the prince starts, which will be\nbefore the feast of the Epiphany. Have Pommers ready at mid-day with my\nsycamore lance, and place my harness on the sumpter mule.\"\n\nWith these brief directions, the two old soldiers strode off together,\nwhile Alleyne hastened to get all in order for their journey.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI. HOW THE THREE COMRADES GAINED A MIGHTY TREASURE\n\n\nIt was a bright, crisp winter's day when the little party set off from\nBordeaux on their journey to Montaubon, where the missing half of their\nCompany had last been heard of. Sir Nigel and Ford had ridden on in\nadvance, the knight upon his hackney, while his great war-horse trotted\nbeside his squire. Two hours later Alleyne Edricson followed; for he had\nthe tavern reckoning to settle, and many other duties which fell to him\nas squire of the body. With him came Aylward and Hordle John, armed\nas of old, but mounted for their journey upon a pair of clumsy Landes\nhorses, heavy-headed and shambling, but of great endurance, and capable\nof jogging along all day, even when between the knees of the huge\narcher, who turned the scale at two hundred and seventy pounds. They\ntook with them the sumpter mules, which carried in panniers the wardrobe\nand table furniture of Sir Nigel; for the knight, though neither fop nor\nepicure, was very dainty in small matters, and loved, however bare the\nboard or hard the life, that his napery should still be white and his\nspoon of silver.\n\nThere had been frost during the night, and the white hard road rang loud\nunder their horses' irons as they spurred through the east gate of the\ntown, along the same broad highway which the unknown French champion\nhad traversed on the day of the jousts. The three rode abreast, Alleyne\nEdricson with his eyes cast down and his mind distrait, for his thoughts\nwere busy with the conversation which he had had with Sir Nigel in the\nmorning. Had he done well to say so much, or had he not done better to\nhave said more? What would the knight have said had he confessed to his\nlove for the Lady Maude? Would he cast him off in disgrace, or might he\nchide him as having abused the shelter of his roof? It had been ready\nupon his tongue to tell him all when Sir Oliver had broken in upon them.\nPerchance Sir Nigel, with his love of all the dying usages of chivalry,\nmight have contrived some strange ordeal or feat of arms by which his\nlove should be put to the test. Alleyne smiled as he wondered what\nfantastic and wondrous deed would be exacted from him. Whatever it was,\nhe was ready for it, whether it were to hold the lists in the court of\nthe King of Tartary, to carry a cartel to the Sultan of Baghdad, or to\nserve a term against the wild heathen of Prussia. Sir Nigel had said\nthat his birth was high enough for any lady, if his fortune could but\nbe amended. Often had Alleyne curled his lip at the beggarly craving for\nland or for gold which blinded man to the higher and more lasting issues\nof life. Now it seemed as though it were only by this same land and gold\nthat he might hope to reach his heart's desire. But then, again, the\nSocman of Minstead was no friend to the Constable of Twynham Castle. It\nmight happen that, should he amass riches by some happy fortune of war,\nthis feud might hold the two families aloof. Even if Maude loved him, he\nknew her too well to think that she would wed him without the blessing\nof her father. Dark and murky was it all, but hope mounts high in youth,\nand it ever fluttered over all the turmoil of his thoughts like a white\nplume amid the shock of horsemen.\n\nIf Alleyne Edricson had enough to ponder over as he rode through the\nbare plains of Guienne, his two companions were more busy with the\npresent and less thoughtful of the future. Aylward rode for half a mile\nwith his chin upon his shoulder, looking back at a white kerchief which\nfluttered out of the gable window of a high house which peeped over the\ncorner of the battlements. When at last a dip of the road hid it from\nhis view, he cocked his steel cap, shrugged his broad shoulders, and\nrode on with laughter in his eyes, and his weather-beaten face all\nashine with pleasant memories. John also rode in silence, but his eyes\nwandered slowly from one side of the road to the other, and he stared\nand pondered and nodded his head like a traveller who makes his notes\nand saves them up for the re-telling.\n\n\"By the rood!\" he broke out suddenly, slapping his thigh with his great\nred hand, \"I knew that there was something a-missing, but I could not\nbring to my mind what it was.\"\n\n\"What was it then?\" asked Alleyne, coming with a start out of his\nreverie.\n\n\"Why, it is the hedgerows,\" roared John, with a shout of laughter. \"The\ncountry is all scraped as clear as a friar's poll. But indeed I cannot\nthink much of the folk in these parts. Why do they not get to work and\ndig up these long rows of black and crooked stumps which I see on every\nhand? A franklin of Hampshire would think shame to have such litter upon\nhis soil.\"\n\n\"Thou foolish old John!\" quoth Aylward. \"You should know better, since\nI have heard that the monks of Beaulieu could squeeze a good cup of\nwine from their own grapes. Know then that if these rows were dug up\nthe wealth of the country would be gone, and mayhap there would be dry\nthroats and gaping mouths in England, for in three months' time these\nblack roots will blossom and shoot and burgeon, and from them will come\nmany a good ship-load of Medoc and Gascony which will cross the narrow\nseas. But see the church in the hollow, and the folk who cluster in the\nchurchyard! By my hilt! it is a burial, and there is a passing bell!\"\nHe pulled off his steel cap as he spoke and crossed himself, with a\nmuttered prayer for the repose of the dead.\n\n\"There too,\" remarked Alleyne, as they rode on again, \"that which seems\nto the eye to be dead is still full of the sap of life, even as the\nvines were. Thus God hath written Himself and His laws very broadly on\nall that is around us, if our poor dull eyes and duller souls could but\nread what He hath set before us.\"\n\n\"Ha! mon petit,\" cried the bowman, \"you take me back to the days when\nyou were new fledged, as sweet a little chick as ever pecked his way\nout of a monkish egg. I had feared that in gaining our debonair young\nman-at-arms we had lost our soft-spoken clerk. In truth, I have noted\nmuch change in you since we came from Twynham Castle.\"\n\n\"Surely it would be strange else, seeing that I have lived in a world\nso new to me. Yet I trust that there are many things in which I have not\nchanged. If I have turned to serve an earthly master, and to carry arms\nfor an earthly king, it would be an ill thing if I were to lose all\nthought of the great high King and Master of all, whose humble and\nunworthy servant I was ere ever I left Beaulieu. You, John, are also\nfrom the cloisters, but I trow that you do not feel that you have\ndeserted the old service in taking on the new.\"\n\n\"I am a slow-witted man,\" said John, \"and, in sooth, when I try to think\nabout such matters it casts a gloom upon me. Yet I do not look upon\nmyself as a worse man in an archer's jerkin than I was in a white cowl,\nif that be what you mean.\"\n\n\"You have but changed from one white company to the other,\" quoth\nAylward. \"But, by these ten finger-bones! it is a passing strange thing\nto me to think that it was but in the last fall of the leaf that we\nwalked from Lyndhurst together, he so gentle and maidenly, and you,\nJohn, like a great red-limbed overgrown moon-calf; and now here you\nare as sprack a squire and as lusty an archer as ever passed down the\nhighway from Bordeaux, while I am still the same old Samkin Aylward,\nwith never a change, save that I have a few more sins on my soul and a\nfew less crowns in my pouch. But I have never yet heard, John, what the\nreason was why you should come out of Beaulieu.\"\n\n\"There were seven reasons,\" said John thoughtfully. \"The first of them\nwas that they threw me out.\"\n\n\"Ma foi! camarade, to the devil with the other six! That is enough for\nme and for thee also. I can see that they are very wise and discreet\nfolk at Beaulieu. Ah! mon ange, what have you in the pipkin?\"\n\n\"It is milk, worthy sir,\" answered the peasant-maid, who stood by the\ndoor of a cottage with a jug in her hand. \"Would it please you, gentles,\nthat I should bring you out three horns of it?\"\n\n\"Nay, ma petite, but here is a two-sous piece for thy kindly tongue and\nfor the sight of thy pretty face. Ma foi! but she has a bonne mine. I\nhave a mind to bide and speak with her.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Aylward,\" cried Alleyne. \"Sir Nigel will await us, and he in\nhaste.\"\n\n\"True, true, camarade! Adieu, ma cherie! mon coeur est toujours a\ntoi. Her mother is a well-grown woman also. See where she digs by the\nwayside. Ma foi! the riper fruit is ever the sweeter. Bon jour, ma belle\ndame! God have you in his keeping! Said Sir Nigel where he would await\nus?\"\n\n\"At Marmande or Aiguillon. He said that we could not pass him, seeing\nthat there is but the one road.\"\n\n\"Aye, and it is a road that I know as I know the Midhurst parish\nbutts,\" quoth the bowman. \"Thirty times have I journeyed it, forward and\nbackward, and, by the twang of string! I am wont to come back this way\nmore laden than I went. I have carried all that I had into France in\na wallet, and it hath taken four sumpter-mules to carry it back again.\nGod's benison on the man who first turned his hand to the making of war!\nBut there, down in the dingle, is the church of Cardillac, and you may\nsee the inn where three poplars grow beyond the village. Let us on, for\na stoup of wine would hearten us upon our way.\"\n\nThe highway had lain through the swelling vineyard country, which\nstretched away to the north and east in gentle curves, with many a\npeeping spire and feudal tower, and cluster of village houses, all clear\ncut and hard in the bright wintry air. To their right stretched the blue\nGaronne, running swiftly seawards, with boats and barges dotted over its\nbroad bosom. On the other side lay a strip of vineyard, and beyond it\nthe desolate and sandy region of the Landes, all tangled with faded\ngorse and heath and broom, stretching away in unbroken gloom to the blue\nhills which lay low upon the furthest sky-line. Behind them might still\nbe seen the broad estuary of the Gironde, with the high towers of\nSaint Andre and Saint Remi shooting up from the plain. In front, amid\nradiating lines of poplars, lay the riverside townlet of Cardillac--gray\nwalls, white houses, and a feather of blue smoke.\n\n\"This is the 'Mouton d'Or,'\" said Aylward, as they pulled up their\nhorses at a whitewashed straggling hostel. \"What ho there!\" he\ncontinued, beating upon the door with the hilt of his sword. \"Tapster,\nostler, varlet, hark hither, and a wannion on your lazy limbs! Ha!\nMichel, as red in the nose as ever! Three jacks of the wine of the\ncountry, Michel--for the air bites shrewdly. I pray you, Alleyne, to\ntake note of this door, for I have a tale concerning it.\"\n\n\"Tell me, friend,\" said Alleyne to the portly red-faced inn-keeper, \"has\na knight and a squire passed this way within the hour?\"\n\n\"Nay, sir, it would be two hours back. Was he a small man, weak in the\neyes, with a want of hair, and speaks very quiet when he is most to be\nfeared?\"\n\n\"The same,\" the squire answered. \"But I marvel how you should know how\nhe speaks when he is in wrath, for he is very gentle-minded with those\nwho are beneath him.\"\n\n\"Praise to the saints! it was not I who angered him,\" said the fat\nMichel.\n\n\"Who, then?\"\n\n\"It was young Sieur de Crespigny of Saintonge, who chanced to be here,\nand made game of the Englishman, seeing that he was but a small man and\nhath a face which is full of peace. But indeed this good knight was a\nvery quiet and patient man, for he saw that the Sieur de Crespigny\nwas still young and spoke from an empty head, so he sat his horse\nand quaffed his wine, even as you are doing now, all heedless of the\nclacking tongue.\"\n\n\"And what then, Michel?\"\n\n\"Well, messieurs, it chanced that the Sieur de Crespigny, having said\nthis and that, for the laughter of the varlets, cried out at last about\nthe glove that the knight wore in his coif, asking if it was the custom\nin England for a man to wear a great archer's glove in his cap. Pardieu!\nI have never seen a man get off his horse as quick as did that stranger\nEnglishman. Ere the words were past the other's lips he was beside him,\nhis face nigh touching, and his breath hot upon his cheeks. 'I think,\nyoung sir,' quoth he softly, looking into the other's eyes, 'that now\nthat I am nearer you will very clearly see that the glove is not an\narcher's glove.' 'Perchance not,' said the Sieur de Crespigny with a\ntwitching lip. 'Nor is it large, but very small,' quoth the Englishman.\n'Less large than I had thought,' said the other, looking down, for the\nknight's gaze was heavy upon his eyelids. 'And in every way such a glove\nas might be worn by the fairest and sweetest lady in England,' quoth\nthe Englishman. 'It may be so,' said the Sieur de Crespigny, turning his\nface from him. 'I am myself weak in the eyes, and have often taken one\nthing for another,' quoth the knight, as he sprang back into his saddle\nand rode off, leaving the Sieur de Crespigny biting his nails before the\ndoor. Ha! by the five wounds, many men of war have drunk my wine, but\nnever one was more to my fancy than this little Englishman.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! he is our master, Michel,\" quoth Aylward, \"and such men as\nwe do not serve under a laggart. But here are four deniers, Michel, and\nGod be with you! En avant, camarades! for we have a long road before\nus.\"\n\nAt a brisk trot the three friends left Cardillac and its wine-house\nbehind them, riding without a halt past St. Macaire, and on by ferry\nover the river Dorpt. At the further side the road winds through La\nReolle, Bazaille, and Marmande, with the sunlit river still gleaming\nupon the right, and the bare poplars bristling up upon either side. John\nand Alleyne rode silent on either side, but every inn, farm-steading,\nor castle brought back to Aylward some remembrance of love, foray, or\nplunder, with which to beguile the way.\n\n\"There is the smoke from Bazas, on the further side of Garonne,\" quoth\nhe. \"There were three sisters yonder, the daughters of a farrier, and,\nby these ten finger-bones! a man might ride for a long June day and\nnever set eyes upon such maidens. There was Marie, tall and grave, and\nBlanche petite and gay, and the dark Agnes, with eyes that went through\nyou like a waxed arrow. I lingered there as long as four days, and was\nbetrothed to them all; for it seemed shame to set one above her sisters,\nand might make ill blood in the family. Yet, for all my care, things\nwere not merry in the house, and I thought it well to come away. There,\ntoo, is the mill of Le Souris. Old Pierre Le Caron, who owned it, was a\nright good comrade, and had ever a seat and a crust for a weary archer.\nHe was a man who wrought hard at all that he turned his hand to; but he\nheated himself in grinding bones to mix with his flour, and so through\nover-diligence he brought a fever upon himself and died.\"\n\n\"Tell me, Aylward,\" said Alleyne, \"what was amiss with the door of\nyonder inn that you should ask me to observe it.\"\n\n\"Pardieu! yes, I had well-nigh forgot. What saw you on yonder door?\"\n\n\"I saw a square hole, through which doubtless the host may peep when he\nis not too sure of those who knock.\"\n\n\"And saw you naught else?\"\n\n\"I marked that beneath this hole there was a deep cut in the door, as\nthough a great nail had been driven in.\"\n\n\"And naught else?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Had you looked more closely you might have seen that there was a stain\nupon the wood. The first time that I ever heard my comrade Black Simon\nlaugh was in front of that door. I heard him once again when he slew a\nFrench squire with his teeth, he being unarmed and the Frenchman having\na dagger.\"\n\n\"And why did Simon laugh in front of the inn-door!\" asked John.\n\n\"Simon is a hard and perilous man when he hath the bitter drop in him;\nand, by my hilt! he was born for war, for there is little sweetness or\nrest in him. This inn, the 'Mouton d'Or,' was kept in the old days by\none Francois Gourval, who had a hard fist and a harder heart. It was\nsaid that many and many an archer coming from the wars had been served\nwith wine with simples in it, until he slept, and had then been stripped\nof all by this Gourval. Then on the morrow, if he made complaint, this\nwicked Gourval would throw him out upon the road or beat him, for he\nwas a very lusty man, and had many stout varlets in his service. This\nchanced to come to Simon's ears when we were at Bordeaux together, and\nhe would have it that we should ride to Cardillac with a good hempen\ncord, and give this Gourval such a scourging as he merited. Forth we\nrode then, but when we came to the 'Mouton d'Or,' Gourval had had word of\nour coming and its purpose, so that the door was barred, nor was there\nany way into the house. 'Let us in, good Master Gourval!' cried Simon,\nand 'Let us in, good Master Gourval!' cried I, but no word could we get\nthrough the hole in the door, save that he would draw an arrow upon us\nunless we went on our way. 'Well, Master Gourval,' quoth Simon at last,\n'this is but a sorry welcome, seeing that we have ridden so far just to\nshake you by the hand.' 'Canst shake me by the hand without coming in,'\nsaid Gourval. 'And how that?' asked Simon. 'By passing in your hand\nthrough the hole,' said he. 'Nay, my hand is wounded,' quoth Simon, 'and\nof such a size that I cannot pass it in.' 'That need not hinder,' said\nGourval, who was hot to be rid of us, 'pass in your left hand.' 'But I\nhave something for thee, Gourval,' said Simon. 'What then?' he asked.\n'There was an English archer who slept here last week of the name of\nHugh of Nutbourne.' 'We have had many rogues here,' said Gourval. 'His\nconscience hath been heavy within him because he owes you a debt of\nfourteen deniers, having drunk wine for which he hath never paid.\nFor the easing of his soul, he asked me to pay the money to you as I\npassed.' Now this Gourval was very greedy for money, so he thrust forth\nhis hand for the fourteen deniers, but Simon had his dagger ready and\nhe pinned his hand to the door. 'I have paid the Englishman's debt,\nGourval!' quoth he, and so rode away, laughing so that he could scarce\nsit his horse, leaving mine host still nailed to his door. Such is the\nstory of the hole which you have marked, and of the smudge upon the\nwood. I have heard that from that time English archers have been better\ntreated in the auberge of Cardillac. But what have we here by the\nwayside?\"\n\n\"It appears to be a very holy man,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"And, by the rood! he hath some strange wares,\" cried John. \"What are\nthese bits of stone, and of wood, and rusted nails, which are set out in\nfront of him?\"\n\nThe man whom they had remarked sat with his back against a cherry-tree,\nand his legs shooting out in front of him, like one who is greatly at\nhis ease. Across his thighs was a wooden board, and scattered over it\nall manner of slips of wood and knobs of brick and stone, each laid\nseparate from the other, as a huckster places his wares. He was dressed\nin a long gray gown, and wore a broad hat of the same color, much\nweather-stained, with three scallop-shells dangling from the brim. As\nthey approached, the travellers observed that he was advanced in years,\nand that his eyes were upturned and yellow.\n\n\"Dear knights and gentlemen,\" he cried in a high crackling voice,\n\"worthy Christian cavaliers, will ye ride past and leave an aged pilgrim\nto die of hunger? The sight hast been burned from mine eyes by the sands\nof the Holy Land, and I have had neither crust of bread nor cup of wine\nthese two days past.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! father,\" said Aylward, looking keenly at him, \"it is a\nmarvel to me that thy girdle should have so goodly a span and clip thee\nso closely, if you have in sooth had so little to place within it.\"\n\n\"Kind stranger,\" answered the pilgrim, \"you have unwittingly spoken\nwords which are very grievous to me to listen to. Yet I should be loth\nto blame you, for I doubt not that what you said was not meant to sadden\nme, nor to bring my sore affliction back to my mind. It ill becomes me\nto prate too much of what I have endured for the faith, and yet, since\nyou have observed it, I must tell you that this thickness and roundness\nof the waist is caused by a dropsy brought on by over-haste in\njourneying from the house of Pilate to the Mount of Olives.\"\n\n\"There, Aylward,\" said Alleyne, with a reddened cheek, \"let that curb\nyour blunt tongue. How could you bring a fresh pang to this holy man,\nwho hath endured so much and hath journeyed as far as Christ's own\nblessed tomb?\"\n\n\"May the foul fiend strike me dumb!\" cried the bowman in hot repentance;\nbut both the palmer and Alleyne threw up their hands to stop him.\n\n\"I forgive thee from my heart, dear brother,\" piped the blind man. \"But,\noh, these wild words of thine are worse to mine ears than aught which\nyou could say of me.\"\n\n\"Not another word shall I speak,\" said Aylward; \"but here is a franc for\nthee and I crave thy blessing.\"\n\n\"And here is another,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"And another,\" cried Hordle John.\n\nBut the blind palmer would have none of their alms. \"Foolish, foolish\npride!\" he cried, beating upon his chest with his large brown hand.\n\"Foolish, foolish pride! How long then will it be ere I can scourge it\nforth? Am I then never to conquer it? Oh, strong, strong are the ties of\nflesh, and hard it is to subdue the spirit! I come, friends, of a noble\nhouse, and I cannot bring myself to touch this money, even though it be\nto save me from the grave.\"\n\n\"Alas! father,\" said Alleyne, \"how then can we be of help to thee?\"\n\n\"I had sat down here to die,\" quoth the palmer; \"but for many years I\nhave carried in my wallet these precious things which you see set forth\nnow before me. It were sin, thought I, that my secret should perish with\nme. I shall therefore sell these things to the first worthy passers-by,\nand from them I shall have money enough to take me to the shrine of Our\nLady at Rocamadour, where I hope to lay these old bones.\"\n\n\"What are these treasures, then, father?\" asked Hordle John. \"I can but\nsee an old rusty nail, with bits of stone and slips of wood.\"\n\n\"My friend,\" answered the palmer, \"not all the money that is in this\ncountry could pay a just price for these wares of mine. This nail,\" he\ncontinued, pulling off his hat and turning up his sightless orbs, \"is\none of those wherewith man's salvation was secured. I had it, together\nwith this piece of the true rood, from the five-and-twentieth descendant\nof Joseph of Arimathea, who still lives in Jerusalem alive and well,\nthough latterly much afflicted by boils. Aye, you may well cross\nyourselves, and I beg that you will not breathe upon it or touch it with\nyour fingers.\"\n\n\"And the wood and stone, holy father?\" asked Alleyne, with bated breath,\nas he stared awe-struck at his precious relics.\n\n\"This cantle of wood is from the true cross, this other from Noah his\nark, and the third is from the door-post of the temple of the wise King\nSolomon. This stone was thrown at the sainted Stephen, and the other two\nare from the Tower of Babel. Here, too, is part of Aaron's rod, and a\nlock of hair from Elisha the prophet.\"\n\n\"But, father,\" quoth Alleyne, \"the holy Elisha was bald, which brought\ndown upon him the revilements of the wicked children.\"\n\n\"It is very true that he had not much hair,\" said the palmer quickly,\n\"and it is this which makes this relic so exceeding precious. Take now\nyour choice of these, my worthy gentlemen, and pay such a price as\nyour consciences will suffer you to offer; for I am not a chapman nor\na huckster, and I would never part with them, did I not know that I am\nvery near to my reward.\"\n\n\"Aylward,\" said Alleyne excitedly, \"this is such a chance as few folk\nhave twice in one life. The nail I must have, and I will give it to the\nabbey of Beaulieu, so that all the folk in England may go thither to\nwonder and to pray.\"\n\n\"And I will have the stone from the temple,\" cried Hordle John. \"What\nwould not my old mother give to have it hung over her bed?\"\n\n\"And I will have Aaron's rod,\" quoth Aylward. \"I have but five florins\nin the world, and here are four of them.\"\n\n\"Here are three more,\" said John.\n\n\"And here are five more,\" added Alleyne. \"Holy father, I hand you twelve\nflorins, which is all that we can give, though we well know how poor a\npay it is for the wondrous things which you sell us.\"\n\n\"Down, pride, down!\" cried the pilgrim, still beating upon his chest.\n\"Can I not bend myself then to take this sorry sum which is offered me\nfor that which has cost me the labors of a life. Give me the dross! Here\nare the precious relics, and, oh, I pray you that you will handle them\nsoftly and with reverence, else had I rather left my unworthy bones here\nby the wayside.\"\n\nWith doffed caps and eager hands, the comrades took their new and\nprecious possessions, and pressed onwards upon their journey, leaving\nthe aged palmer still seated under the cherry-tree. They rode in\nsilence, each with his treasure in his hand, glancing at it from time to\ntime, and scarce able to believe that chance had made them sole owners\nof relics of such holiness and worth that every abbey and church\nin Christendom would have bid eagerly for their possession. So they\njourneyed, full of this good fortune, until opposite the town of Le Mas,\nwhere John's horse cast a shoe, and they were glad to find a wayside\nsmith who might set the matter to rights. To him Aylward narrated the\ngood hap which had befallen them; but the smith, when his eyes lit upon\nthe relics, leaned up against his anvil and laughed, with his hand to\nhis side, until the tears hopped down his sooty cheeks.\n\n\"Why, masters,\" quoth he, \"this man is a coquillart, or seller of false\nrelics, and was here in the smithy not two hours ago. This nail that\nhe hath sold you was taken from my nail-box, and as to the wood and the\nstones, you will see a heap of both outside from which he hath filled\nhis scrip.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" cried Alleyne, \"this was a holy man who had journeyed to\nJerusalem, and acquired a dropsy by running from the house of Pilate to\nthe Mount of Olives.\"\n\n\"I know not about that,\" said the smith; \"but I know that a man with a\ngray palmer's hat and gown was here no very long time ago, and that he\nsat on yonder stump and ate a cold pullet and drank a flask of wine.\nThen he begged from me one of my nails, and filling his scrip with\nstones, he went upon his way. Look at these nails, and see if they are\nnot the same as that which he has sold you.\"\n\n\"Now may God save us!\" cried Alleyne, all aghast. \"Is there no end then\nto the wickedness of humankind? He so humble, so aged, so loth to take\nour money--and yet a villain and a cheat. Whom can we trust or believe\nin?\"\n\n\"I will after him,\" said Aylward, flinging himself into the saddle.\n\"Come, Alleyne, we may catch him ere John's horse be shod.\"\n\nAway they galloped together, and ere long they saw the old gray palmer\nwalking slowly along in front of them. He turned, however, at the sound\nof their hoofs, and it was clear that his blindness was a cheat like all\nthe rest of him, for he ran swiftly through a field and so into a wood,\nwhere none could follow him. They hurled their relics after him, and so\nrode back to the blacksmith's the poorer both in pocket and in faith.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII. HOW ROGER CLUB-FOOT WAS PASSED INTO PARADISE.\n\n\nIt was evening before the three comrades came into Aiguillon. There they\nfound Sir Nigel Loring and Ford safely lodged at the sign of the\n\"Baton Rouge,\" where they supped on good fare and slept between\nlavender-scented sheets. It chanced, however, that a knight of Poitou,\nSir Gaston d'Estelle, was staying there on his way back from Lithuania,\nwhere he had served a term with the Teutonic knights under the\nland-master of the presbytery of Marienberg. He and Sir Nigel sat late\nin high converse as to bushments, outfalls, and the intaking of cities,\nwith many tales of warlike men and valiant deeds. Then their talk turned\nto minstrelsy, and the stranger knight drew forth a cittern, upon which\nhe played the minne-lieder of the north, singing the while in a high\ncracked voice of Hildebrand and Brunhild and Siegfried, and all the\nstrength and beauty of the land of Almain. To this Sir Nigel answered\nwith the romances of Sir Eglamour, and of Sir Isumbras, and so through\nthe long winter night they sat by the crackling wood-fire answering each\nother's songs until the crowing cocks joined in their concert. Yet, with\nscarce an hour of rest, Sir Nigel was as blithe and bright as ever as\nthey set forth after breakfast upon their way.\n\n\"This Sir Gaston is a very worthy man,\" said he to his squires as they\nrode from the \"Baton Rouge.\" \"He hath a very strong desire to advance\nhimself, and would have entered upon some small knightly debate with me,\nhad he not chanced to have his arm-bone broken by the kick of a horse.\nI have conceived a great love for him, and I have promised him that when\nhis bone is mended I will exchange thrusts with him. But we must keep to\nthis road upon the left.\"\n\n\"Nay, my fair lord,\" quoth Aylward. \"The road to Montaubon is over the\nriver, and so through Quercy and the Agenois.\"\n\n\"True, my good Aylward; but I have learned from this worthy knight, who\nhath come over the French marches, that there is a company of Englishmen\nwho are burning and plundering in the country round Villefranche. I have\nlittle doubt, from what he says, that they are those whom we seek.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! it is like enough,\" said Aylward. \"By all accounts they had\nbeen so long at Montaubon, that there would be little there worth the\ntaking. Then as they have already been in the south, they would come\nnorth to the country of the Aveyron.\"\n\n\"We shall follow the Lot until we come to Cahors, and then cross the\nmarches into Villefranche,\" said Sir Nigel. \"By St. Paul! as we are but\na small band, it is very likely that we may have some very honorable\nand pleasing adventure, for I hear that there is little peace upon the\nFrench border.\"\n\nAll morning they rode down a broad and winding road, barred with the\nshadows of poplars. Sir Nigel rode in front with his squires, while the\ntwo archers followed behind with the sumpter mule between them. They\nhad left Aiguillon and the Garonne far to the south, and rode now by\nthe tranquil Lot, which curves blue and placid through a gently rolling\ncountry. Alleyne could not but mark that, whereas in Guienne there had\nbeen many townlets and few castles, there were now many castles and few\nhouses. On either hand gray walls and square grim keeps peeped out at\nevery few miles from amid the forests while the few villages which\nthey passed were all ringed round with rude walls, which spoke of the\nconstant fear and sudden foray of a wild frontier land. Twice during the\nmorning there came bands of horsemen swooping down upon them from the\nblack gateways of wayside strongholds, with short, stern questions as to\nwhence they came and what their errand. Bands of armed men clanked\nalong the highway, and the few lines of laden mules which carried the\nmerchandise of the trader were guarded by armed varlets, or by archers\nhired for the service.\n\n\"The peace of Bretigny hath not made much change in these parts,\"\nquoth Sir Nigel, \"for the country is overrun with free companions and\nmasterless men. Yonder towers, between the wood and the hill, mark the\ntown of Cahors, and beyond it is the land of France. But here is a man\nby the wayside, and as he hath two horses and a squire I make little\ndoubt that he is a knight. I pray you, Alleyne, to give him greeting\nfrom me, and to ask him for his titles and coat-armor. It may be that I\ncan relieve him of some vow, or perchance he hath a lady whom he would\nwish to advance.\"\n\n\"Nay, my fair lord,\" said Alleyne, \"these are not horses and a squire,\nbut mules and a varlet. The man is a mercer, for he hath a great bundle\nbeside him.\"\n\n\"Now, God's blessing on your honest English voice!\" cried the stranger,\npricking up his ears at the sound of Alleyne's words. \"Never have I\nheard music that was so sweet to mine ear. Come, Watkin lad, throw the\nbales over Laura's back! My heart was nigh broke, for it seemed that I\nhad left all that was English behind me, and that I would never set eyes\nupon Norwich market square again.\" He was a tall, lusty, middle-aged\nman with a ruddy face, a brown forked beard shot with gray, and a\nbroad Flanders hat set at the back of his head. His servant, as tall as\nhimself, but gaunt and raw-boned, had swung the bales on the back of\none mule, while the merchant mounted upon the other and rode to join\nthe party. It was easy to see, as he approached, from the quality of\nhis dress and the richness of his trappings, that he was a man of some\nwealth and position.\n\n\"Sir knight,\" said he, \"my name is David Micheldene, and I am a burgher\nand alderman of the good town of Norwich, where I live five doors from\nthe church of Our Lady, as all men know on the banks of Yare. I have\nhere my bales of cloth which I carry to Cahors--woe worth the day that\never I started on such an errand! I crave your gracious protection upon\nthe way for me, my servant, and my mercery; for I have already had\nmany perilous passages, and have now learned that Roger Club-foot, the\nrobber-knight of Quercy, is out upon the road in front of me. I hereby\nagree to give you one rose-noble if you bring me safe to the inn of the\n'Angel' in Cahors, the same to be repaid to me or my heirs if any harm\ncome to me or my goods.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" answered Sir Nigel, \"I should be a sorry knight if I\nask pay for standing by a countryman in a strange land. You may ride\nwith me and welcome, Master Micheldene, and your varlet may follow with\nmy archers.\"\n\n\"God's benison upon thy bounty!\" cried the stranger. \"Should you come to\nNorwich you may have cause to remember that you have been of service to\nAlderman Micheldene. It is not very far to Cahors, for surely I see the\ncathedral towers against the sky-line; but I have heard much of this\nRoger Clubfoot, and the more I hear the less do I wish to look upon his\nface. Oh, but I am sick and weary of it all, and I would give half that\nI am worth to see my good dame sitting in peace beside me, and to hear\nthe bells of Norwich town.\"\n\n\"Your words are strange to me,\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"for you have the\nappearance of a stout man, and I see that you wear a sword by your\nside.\"\n\n\"Yet it is not my trade,\" answered the merchant. \"I doubt not that if\nI set you down in my shop at Norwich you might scarce tell fustian from\nfalding, and know little difference between the velvet of Genoa and the\nthree-piled cloth of Bruges. There you might well turn to me for help.\nBut here on a lone roadside, with thick woods and robber-knights, I turn\nto you, for it is the business to which you have been reared.\"\n\n\"There is sooth in what you say, Master Micheldene,\" said Sir Nigel,\n\"and I trust that we may come upon this Roger Clubfoot, for I have heard\nthat he is a very stout and skilful soldier, and a man from whom much\nhonor is to be gained.\"\n\n\"He is a bloody robber,\" said the trader, curtly, \"and I wish I saw him\nkicking at the end of a halter.\"\n\n\"It is such men as he,\" Sir Nigel remarked, \"who give the true knight\nhonorable deeds to do, whereby he may advance himself.\"\n\n\"It is such men as he,\" retorted Micheldene, \"who are like rats in\na wheat-rick or moths in a woolfels, a harm and a hindrance to all\npeaceful and honest men.\"\n\n\"Yet, if the dangers of the road weigh so heavily upon you, master\nalderman, it is a great marvel to me that you should venture so far from\nhome.\"\n\n\"And sometimes, sir knight, it is a marvel to myself. But I am a man who\nmay grutch and grumble, but when I have set my face to do a thing I\nwill not turn my back upon it until it be done. There is one, Francois\nVillet, at Cahors, who will send me wine-casks for my cloth-bales, so to\nCahors I will go, though all the robber-knights of Christendom were to\nline the roads like yonder poplars.\"\n\n\"Stoutly spoken, master alderman! But how have you fared hitherto?\"\n\n\"As a lamb fares in a land of wolves. Five times we have had to beg and\npray ere we could pass. Twice I have paid toll to the wardens of the\nroad. Three times we have had to draw, and once at La Reolle we stood\nover our wool-bales, Watkin and I, and we laid about us for as long as a\nman might chant a litany, slaying one rogue and wounding two others. By\nGod's coif! we are men of peace, but we are free English burghers, not\nto be mishandled either in our country or abroad. Neither lord, baron,\nknight, or commoner shall have as much as a strike of flax of mine\nwhilst I have strength to wag this sword.\"\n\n\"And a passing strange sword it is,\" quoth Sir Nigel. \"What make you,\nAlleyne, of these black lines which are drawn across the sheath?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell what they are, my fair lord.\"\n\n\"Nor can I,\" said Ford.\n\nThe merchant chuckled to himself. \"It was a thought of mine own,\"\nsaid he; \"for the sword was made by Thomas Wilson, the armorer, who is\nbetrothed to my second daughter Margery. Know then that the sheath is\none cloth-yard, in length, marked off according to feet and inches to\nserve me as a measuring wand. It is also of the exact weight of two\npounds, so that I may use it in the balance.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"it is very clear to me that the sword\nis like thyself, good alderman, apt either for war or for peace. But\nI doubt not that even in England you have had much to suffer from the\nhands of robbers and outlaws.\"\n\n\"It was only last Lammastide, sir knight, that I was left for dead near\nReading as I journeyed to Winchester fair. Yet I had the rogues up at\nthe court of pie-powder, and they will harm no more peaceful traders.\"\n\n\"You travel much then!\"\n\n\"To Winchester, Linn mart, Bristol fair, Stourbridge, and Bartholomew's\nin London Town. The rest of the year you may ever find me five doors\nfrom the church of Our Lady, where I would from my heart that I was at\nthis moment, for there is no air like Norwich air, and no water like the\nYare, nor can all the wines of France compare with the beer of old Sam\nYelverton who keeps the 'Dun Cow.' But, out and alack, here is an evil\nfruit which hangs upon this chestnut-tree!\"\n\nAs he spoke they had ridden round a curve of the road and come upon a\ngreat tree which shot one strong brown branch across their path. From\nthe centre of this branch there hung a man, with his head at a horrid\nslant to his body and his toes just touching the ground. He was naked\nsave for a linen under shirt and pair of woollen drawers. Beside him\non a green bank there sat a small man with a solemn face, and a great\nbundle of papers of all colors thrusting forth from the scrip which lay\nbeside him. He was very richly dressed, with furred robes, a scarlet\nhood, and wide hanging sleeves lined with flame-colored silk. A great\ngold chain hung round his neck, and rings glittered from every finger of\nhis hands. On his lap he had a little pile of gold and of silver, which\nhe was dropping, coin by coin, into a plump pouch which hung from his\ngirdle.\n\n\"May the saints be with you, good travellers!\" he shouted, as the\nparty rode up. \"May the four Evangelists watch over you! May the twelve\nApostles bear you up! May the blessed army of martyrs direct your feet\nand lead you to eternal bliss!\"\n\n\"Gramercy for these good wishes!\" said Sir Nigel. \"But I perceive,\nmaster alderman, that this man who hangs here is, by mark of foot, the\nvery robber-knight of whom we have spoken. But there is a cartel pinned\nupon his breast, and I pray you, Alleyne, to read it to me.\"\n\nThe dead robber swung slowly to and fro in the wintry wind, a fixed\nsmile upon his swarthy face, and his bulging eyes still glaring down the\nhighway of which he had so long been the terror; on a sheet of parchment\nupon his breast was printed in rude characters;\n\n                    ROGER PIED-BOT.\n\n              Par l'ordre du Senechal de\n              Castelnau, et de l'Echevin de\n              Cahors, servantes fideles du\n              tres vaillant et tres puissant\n              Edouard, Prince de Galles et\n              d'Aquitaine.\n              Ne touchez pas,\n              Ne coutez pas,\n              Ne depechez pas.\n\n\"He took a sorry time in dying,\" said the man who sat beside him. \"He\ncould stretch one toe to the ground and bear himself up, so that I\nthought he would never have done. Now at last, however, he is safely in\nparadise, and so I may jog on upon my earthly way.\" He mounted, as he\nspoke, a white mule which had been grazing by the wayside, all gay\nwith fustian of gold and silver bells, and rode onward with Sir Nigel's\nparty.\n\n\"How know you then that he is in paradise?\" asked Sir Nigel. \"All things\nare possible to God, but, certes, without a miracle, I should scarce\nexpect to find the soul of Roger Clubfoot amongst the just.\"\n\n\"I know that he is there because I have just passed him in there,\"\nanswered the stranger, rubbing his bejewelled hands together in placid\nsatisfaction. \"It is my holy mission to be a sompnour or pardoner. I am\nthe unworthy servant and delegate of him who holds the keys. A contrite\nheart and ten nobles to holy mother Church may stave off perdition; but\nhe hath a pardon of the first degree, with a twenty-five livre benison,\nso that I doubt if he will so much as feel a twinge of purgatory. I came\nup even as the seneschal's archers were tying him up, and I gave him my\nfore-word that I would bide with him until he had passed. There were two\nleaden crowns among the silver, but I would not for that stand in the\nway of his salvation.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" said Sir Nigel, \"if you have indeed this power to open\nand to shut the gates of hope, then indeed you stand high above mankind.\nBut if you do but claim to have it, and yet have it not, then it seems\nto me, master clerk, that you may yourself find the gate barred when you\nshall ask admittance.\"\n\n\"Small of faith! Small of faith!\" cried the sompnour. \"Ah, Sir Didymus\nyet walks upon earth! And yet no words of doubt can bring anger to mine\nheart, or a bitter word to my lip, for am I not a poor unworthy worker\nin the cause of gentleness and peace? Of all these pardons which I bear\nevery one is stamped and signed by our holy father, the prop and centre\nof Christendom.\"\n\n\"Which of them?\" asked Sir Nigel.\n\n\"Ha, ha!\" cried the pardoner, shaking a jewelled forefinger. \"Thou\nwouldst be deep in the secrets of mother Church? Know then that I have\nboth in my scrip. Those who hold with Urban shall have Urban's pardon,\nwhile I have Clement's for the Clementist--or he who is in doubt may\nhave both, so that come what may he shall be secure. I pray you that you\nwill buy one, for war is bloody work, and the end is sudden with little\ntime for thought or shrift. Or you, sir, for you seem to me to be a man\nwho would do ill to trust to your own merits.\" This to the alderman of\nNorwich, who had listened to him with a frowning brow and a sneering\nlip.\n\n\"When I sell my cloth,\" quoth he, \"he who buys may weigh and feel and\nhandle. These goods which you sell are not to be seen, nor is there\nany proof that you hold them. Certes, if mortal man might control God's\nmercy, it would be one of a lofty and God-like life, and not one who is\ndecked out with rings and chains and silks, like a pleasure-wench at a\nkermesse.\n\n\"Thou wicked and shameless man!\" cried the clerk. \"Dost thou dare to\nraise thy voice against the unworthy servant of mother Church?\"\n\n\"Unworthy enough!\" quoth David Micheldene. \"I would have you to know,\nclerk, that I am a free English burgher, and that I dare say my mind to\nour father the Pope himself, let alone such a lacquey's lacquey as you!\"\n\n\"Base-born and foul-mouthed knave!\" cried the sompnour. \"You prate of\nholy things, to which your hog's mind can never rise. Keep silence, lest\nI call a curse upon you!\"\n\n\"Silence yourself!\" roared the other. \"Foul bird! we found thee by the\ngallows like a carrion-crow. A fine life thou hast of it with thy silks\nand thy baubles, cozening the last few shillings from the pouches of\ndying men. A fig for thy curse! Bide here, if you will take my rede, for\nwe will make England too hot for such as you, when Master Wicliff has\nthe ordering of it. Thou vile thief! it is you, and such as you, who\nbring an evil name upon the many churchmen who lead a pure and a holy\nlife. Thou outside the door of heaven! Art more like to be inside the\ndoor of hell.\"\n\nAt this crowning insult the sompnour, with a face ashen with rage,\nraised up a quivering hand and began pouring Latin imprecations upon\nthe angry alderman. The latter, however, was not a man to be quelled by\nwords, for he caught up his ell-measure sword-sheath and belabored the\ncursing clerk with it. The latter, unable to escape from the shower\nof blows, set spurs to his mule and rode for his life, with his enemy\nthundering behind him. At sight of his master's sudden departure, the\nvarlet Watkin set off after him, with the pack-mule beside him, so that\nthe four clattered away down the road together, until they swept round\na curve and their babble was but a drone in the distance. Sir Nigel\nand Alleyne gazed in astonishment at one another, while Ford burst out\na-laughing.\n\n\"Pardieu!\" said the knight, \"this David Micheldene must be one of those\nLollards about whom Father Christopher of the priory had so much to say.\nYet he seemed to be no bad man from what I have seen of him.\"\n\n\"I have heard that Wicliff hath many followers in Norwich,\" answered\nAlleyne.\n\n\"By St. Paul! I have no great love for them,\" quoth Sir Nigel. \"I am a\nman who am slow to change; and, if you take away from me the faith that\nI have been taught, it would be long ere I could learn one to set in its\nplace. It is but a chip here and a chip there, yet it may bring the tree\ndown in time. Yet, on the other hand, I cannot but think it shame that a\nman should turn God's mercy on and off, as a cellarman doth wine with a\nspigot.\"\n\n\"Nor is it,\" said Alleyne, \"part of the teachings of that mother Church\nof which he had so much to say. There was sooth in what the alderman\nsaid of it.\"\n\n\"Then, by St. Paul! they may settle it betwixt them,\" quoth Sir Nigel.\n\"For me, I serve God, the king and my lady; and so long as I can keep\nthe path of honor I am well content. My creed shall ever be that of\nChandos:\n\n        \"Fais ce que dois--adviegne que peut,\n         C'est commande au chevalier.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII. HOW THE COMRADES CAME OVER THE MARCHES OF FRANCE\n\n\nAfter passing Cahors, the party branched away from the main road, and\nleaving the river to the north of them, followed a smaller track which\nwound over a vast and desolate plain. This path led them amid marshes\nand woods, until it brought them out into a glade with a broad stream\nswirling swiftly down the centre of it. Through this the horses splashed\ntheir way, and on the farther shore Sir Nigel announced to them that\nthey were now within the borders of the land of France. For some miles\nthey still followed the same lonely track, which led them through\na dense wood, and then widening out, curved down to an open rolling\ncountry, such as they had traversed between Aiguillon and Cahors.\n\nIf it were grim and desolate upon the English border, however, what\ncan describe the hideous barrenness of this ten times harried tract\nof France? The whole face of the country was scarred and disfigured,\nmottled over with the black blotches of burned farm-steadings, and\nthe gray, gaunt gable-ends of what had been chateaux. Broken fences,\ncrumbling walls, vineyards littered with stones, the shattered arches of\nbridges--look where you might, the signs of ruin and rapine met the eye.\nHere and there only, on the farthest sky-line, the gnarled turrets of a\ncastle, or the graceful pinnacles of church or of monastery showed where\nthe forces of the sword or of the spirit had preserved some small islet\nof security in this universal flood of misery. Moodily and in silence\nthe little party rode along the narrow and irregular track, their hearts\nweighed down by this far-stretching land of despair. It was indeed\na stricken and a blighted country, and a man might have ridden from\nAuvergne in the north to the marches of Foix, nor ever seen a smiling\nvillage or a thriving homestead.\n\nFrom time to time as they advanced they saw strange lean figures\nscraping and scratching amid the weeds and thistles, who, on sight\nof the band of horsemen, threw up their arms and dived in among the\nbrushwood, as shy and as swift as wild animals. More than once, however,\nthey came on families by the wayside, who were too weak from hunger and\ndisease to fly, so that they could but sit like hares on a tussock, with\npanting chests and terror in their eyes. So gaunt were these poor folk,\nso worn and spent--with bent and knotted frames, and sullen, hopeless,\nmutinous faces--that it made the young Englishman heart-sick to look\nupon them. Indeed, it seemed as though all hope and light had gone so\nfar from them that it was not to be brought back; for when Sir Nigel\nthrew down a handful of silver among them there came no softening of\ntheir lined faces, but they clutched greedily at the coins, peering\nquestioningly at him, and champing with their animal jaws. Here and\nthere amid the brushwood the travellers saw the rude bundle of\nsticks which served them as a home--more like a fowl's nest than the\ndwelling-place of man. Yet why should they build and strive, when the\nfirst adventurer who passed would set torch to their thatch, and when\ntheir own feudal lord would wring from them with blows and curses the\nlast fruits of their toil? They sat at the lowest depth of human misery,\nand hugged a bitter comfort to their souls as they realized that they\ncould go no lower. Yet they had still the human gift of speech, and\nwould take council among themselves in their brushwood hovels, glaring\nwith bleared eyes and pointing with thin fingers at the great widespread\nchateaux which ate like a cancer into the life of the country-side. When\nsuch men, who are beyond hope and fear, begin in their dim minds to see\nthe source of their woes, it may be an evil time for those who have wronged\nthem. The weak man becomes strong when he has nothing, for then only can\nhe feel the wild, mad thrill of despair. High and strong the chateaux,\nlowly and weak the brushwood hut; but God help the seigneur and his lady\nwhen the men of the brushwood set their hands to the work of revenge!\n\nThrough such country did the party ride for eight or it might be nine\nmiles, until the sun began to slope down in the west and their shadows\nto stream down the road in front of them. Wary and careful they must\nbe, with watchful eyes to the right and the left, for this was no man's\nland, and their only passports were those which hung from their belts.\nFrenchmen and Englishmen, Gascon and Provencal, Brabanter, Tardvenu,\nScorcher, Flayer, and Free Companion, wandered and struggled over the\nwhole of this accursed district. So bare and cheerless was the outlook,\nand so few and poor the dwellings, that Sir Nigel began to have fears as\nto whether he might find food and quarters for his little troop. It was\na relief to him, therefore, when their narrow track opened out upon a\nlarger road, and they saw some little way down it a square white house\nwith a great bunch of holly hung out at the end of a stick from one of\nthe upper windows.\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" said he, \"I am right glad; for I had feared that we might\nhave neither provant nor herbergage. Ride on, Alleyne, and tell this\ninn-keeper that an English knight with his party will lodge with him\nthis night.\"\n\nAlleyne set spurs to his horse and reached the inn door a long bow-shot\nbefore his companions. Neither varlet nor ostler could be seen, so he\npushed open the door and called loudly for the landlord. Three times he\nshouted, but, receiving no reply, he opened an inner door and advanced\ninto the chief guest-room of the hostel.\n\nA very cheerful wood-fire was sputtering and cracking in an open grate\nat the further end of the apartment. At one side of this fire, in a\nhigh-backed oak chair, sat a lady, her face turned towards the door.\nThe firelight played over her features, and Alleyne thought that he had\nnever seen such queenly power, such dignity and strength, upon a woman's\nface. She might have been five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline\nnose, firm yet sensitive mouth, dark curving brows, and deep-set eyes\nwhich shone and sparkled with a shifting brilliancy. Beautiful as she\nwas, it was not her beauty which impressed itself upon the beholder;\nit was her strength, her power, the sense of wisdom which hung over\nthe broad white brow, the decision which lay in the square jaw and\ndelicately moulded chin. A chaplet of pearls sparkled amid her black\nhair, with a gauze of silver network flowing back from it over her\nshoulders; a black mantle was swathed round her, and she leaned back in\nher chair as one who is fresh from a journey.\n\nIn the opposite corner there sat a very burly and broad-shouldered man,\nclad in a black jerkin trimmed with sable, with a black velvet cap with\ncurling white feather cocked upon the side of his head. A flask of red\nwine stood at his elbow, and he seemed to be very much at his ease, for\nhis feet were stuck up on a stool, and between his thighs he held a dish\nfull of nuts. These he cracked between his strong white teeth and chewed\nin a leisurely way, casting the shells into the blaze. As Alleyne gazed\nin at him he turned his face half round and cocked an eye at him over\nhis shoulder. It seemed to the young Englishman that he had never seen\nso hideous a face, for the eyes were of the lightest green, the nose was\nbroken and driven inwards, while the whole countenance was seared and\npuckered with wounds. The voice, too, when he spoke, was as deep and as\nfierce as the growl of a beast of prey.\n\n\"Young man,\" said he, \"I know not who you may be, and I am not much\ninclined to bestir myself, but if it were not that I am bent upon taking\nmy ease, I swear, by the sword of Joshua! that I would lay my dog-whip\nacross your shoulders for daring to fill the air with these discordant\nbellowings.\"\n\nTaken aback at this ungentle speech, and scarce knowing how to answer it\nfitly in the presence of the lady, Alleyne stood with his hand upon the\nhandle of the door, while Sir Nigel and his companions dismounted. At\nthe sound of these fresh voices, and of the tongue in which they spoke,\nthe stranger crashed his dish of nuts down upon the floor, and began\nhimself to call for the landlord until the whole house re-echoed with\nhis roarings. With an ashen face the white-aproned host came running\nat his call, his hands shaking and his very hair bristling with\napprehension. \"For the sake of God, sirs,\" he whispered as he passed,\n\"speak him fair and do not rouse him! For the love of the Virgin, be\nmild with him!\"\n\n\"Who is this, then?\" asked Sir Nigel.\n\nAlleyne was about to explain, when a fresh roar from the stranger\ninterrupted him.\n\n\"Thou villain inn-keeper,\" he shouted, \"did I not ask you when I brought\nmy lady here whether your inn was clean?\"\n\n\"You did, sire.\"\n\n\"Did I not very particularly ask you whether there were any vermin in\nit?\"\n\n\"You did, sire.\"\n\n\"And you answered me?\"\n\n\"That there were not, sire.\"\n\n\"And yet ere I have been here an hour I find Englishmen crawling about\nwithin it. Where are we to be free from this pestilent race? Can a\nFrenchman upon French land not sit down in a French auberge without\nhaving his ears pained by the clack of their hideous talk? Send them\npacking, inn-keeper, or it may be the worse for them and for you.\"\n\n\"I will, sire, I will!\" cried the frightened host, and bustled from\nthe room, while the soft, soothing voice of the woman was heard\nremonstrating with her furious companion.\n\n\"Indeed, gentlemen, you had best go,\" said mine host. \"It is but six\nmiles to Villefranche, where there are very good quarters at the sign of\nthe 'Lion Rouge.'\"\n\n\"Nay,\" answered Sir Nigel, \"I cannot go until I have seen more of this\nperson, for he appears to be a man from whom much is to be hoped. What\nis his name and title?\"\n\n\"It is not for my lips to name it unless by his desire. But I beg and\npray you, gentlemen, that you will go from my house, for I know not what\nmay come of it if his rage should gain the mastery of him.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" lisped Sir Nigel, \"this is certainly a man whom it\nis worth journeying far to know. Go tell him that a humble knight of\nEngland would make his further honorable acquaintance, not from any\npresumption, pride, or ill-will, but for the advancement of chivalry and\nthe glory of our ladies. Give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring, and\nsay that the glove which I bear in my cap belongs to the most peerless\nand lovely of her sex, whom I am now ready to uphold against any lady\nwhose claim he might be desirous of advancing.\"\n\nThe landlord was hesitating whether to carry this message or no, when\nthe door of the inner room was flung open, and the stranger bounded out\nlike a panther from its den, his hair bristling and his deformed face\nconvulsed with anger.\n\n\"Still here!\" he snarled. \"Dogs of England, must ye be lashed hence?\nTiphaine, my sword!\" He turned to seize his weapon, but as he did so his\ngaze fell upon the blazonry of sir Nigel's shield, and he stood staring,\nwhile the fire in his strange green eyes softened into a sly and\nhumorous twinkle.\n\n\"Mort Dieu!\" cried he, \"it is my little swordsman of Bordeaux. I should\nremember that coat-armor, seeing that it is but three days since I\nlooked upon it in the lists by Garonne. Ah! Sir Nigel, Sir Nigel! you\nowe me a return for this,\" and he touched his right arm, which was girt\nround just under the shoulder with a silken kerchief.\n\nBut the surprise of the stranger at the sight of Sir Nigel was as\nnothing compared with the astonishment and the delight which shone upon\nthe face of the knight of Hampshire as he looked upon the strange face\nof the Frenchman. Twice he opened his mouth and twice he peered again,\nas though to assure himself that his eyes had not played him a trick.\n\n\"Bertrand!\" he gasped at last. \"Bertrand du Guesclin!\"\n\n\"By Saint Ives!\" shouted the French soldier, with a hoarse roar of\nlaughter, \"it is well that I should ride with my vizor down, for he that\nhas once seen my face does not need to be told my name. It is indeed I,\nSir Nigel, and here is my hand! I give you my word that there are but\nthree Englishmen in this world whom I would touch save with the sharp\nedge of the sword: the prince is one, Chandos the second, and you the\nthird; for I have heard much that is good of you.\"\n\n\"I am growing aged, and am somewhat spent in the wars,\" quoth Sir Nigel;\n\"but I can lay by my sword now with an easy mind, for I can say that\nI have crossed swords with him who hath the bravest heart and the\nstrongest arm of all this great kingdom of France. I have longed for it,\nI have dreamed of it, and now I can scarce bring my mind to understand\nthat this great honor hath indeed been mine.\"\n\n\"By the Virgin of Rennes! you have given me cause to be very certain of\nit,\" said Du Guesclin, with a gleam of his broad white teeth.\n\n\"And perhaps, most honored sir, it would please you to continue the\ndebate. Perhaps you would condescend to go farther into the matter.\nGod He knows that I am unworthy of such honor, yet I can show my\nfour-and-sixty quarterings, and I have been present at some bickerings\nand scufflings during these twenty years.\"\n\n\"Your fame is very well known to me, and I shall ask my lady to enter\nyour name upon my tablets,\" said Sir Bertrand. \"There are many who wish\nto advance themselves, and who bide their turn, for I refuse no man who\ncomes on such an errand. At present it may not be, for mine arm is stiff\nfrom this small touch, and I would fain do you full honor when we cross\nswords again. Come in with me, and let your squires come also, that my\nsweet spouse, the Lady Tiphaine, may say that she hath seen so famed and\ngentle a knight.\"\n\nInto the chamber they went in all peace and concord, where the Lady\nTiphaine sat like queen on throne for each in turn to be presented to\nher. Sooth to say, the stout heart of Sir Nigel, which cared little for\nthe wrath of her lion-like spouse, was somewhat shaken by the calm, cold\nface of this stately dame, for twenty years of camp-life had left him\nmore at ease in the lists than in a lady's boudoir. He bethought him,\ntoo, as he looked at her set lips and deep-set questioning eyes, that he\nhad heard strange tales of this same Lady Tiphaine du Guesclin. Was\nit not she who was said to lay hands upon the sick and raise them from\ntheir couches when the leeches had spent their last nostrums? Had she\nnot forecast the future, and were there not times when in the loneliness\nof her chamber she was heard to hold converse with some being upon whom\nmortal eye never rested--some dark familiar who passed where doors were\nbarred and windows high? Sir Nigel sunk his eye and marked a cross on\nthe side of his leg as he greeted this dangerous dame, and yet ere\nfive minutes had passed he was hers, and not he only but his two young\nsquires as well. The mind had gone out of them, and they could but look\nat this woman and listen to the words which fell from her lips--words\nwhich thrilled through their nerves and stirred their souls like the\nbattle-call of a bugle.\n\nOften in peaceful after-days was Alleyne to think of that scene of the\nwayside inn of Auvergne. The shadows of evening had fallen, and the\ncorners of the long, low, wood-panelled room were draped in darkness.\nThe sputtering wood fire threw out a circle of red flickering light\nwhich played over the little group of wayfarers, and showed up every\nline and shadow upon their faces. Sir Nigel sat with elbows upon knees,\nand chin upon hands, his patch still covering one eye, but his other\nshining like a star, while the ruddy light gleamed upon his smooth white\nhead. Ford was seated at his left, his lips parted, his eyes staring,\nand a fleck of deep color on either cheek, his limbs all rigid as one\nwho fears to move. On the other side the famous French captain leaned\nback in his chair, a litter of nut-shells upon his lap, his huge head\nhalf buried in a cushion, while his eyes wandered with an amused gleam\nfrom his dame to the staring, enraptured Englishmen. Then, last of\nall, that pale clear-cut face, that sweet clear voice, with its high\nthrilling talk of the deathlessness of glory, of the worthlessness of\nlife, of the pain of ignoble joys, and of the joy which lies in all\npains which lead to a noble end. Still, as the shadows deepened, she\nspoke of valor and virtue, of loyalty, honor, and fame, and still they\nsat drinking in her words while the fire burned down and the red ash\nturned to gray.\n\n\"By the sainted Ives!\" cried Du Guesclin at last, \"it is time that we\nspoke of what we are to do this night, for I cannot think that in this\nwayside auberge there are fit quarters for an honorable company.\"\n\nSir Nigel gave a long sigh as he came back from the dreams of chivalry\nand hardihood into which this strange woman's words had wafted him. \"I\ncare not where I sleep,\" said he; \"but these are indeed somewhat rude\nlodgings for this fair lady.\"\n\n\"What contents my lord contents me,\" quoth she. \"I perceive, Sir Nigel,\nthat you are under vow,\" she added, glancing at his covered eye.\n\n\"It is my purpose to attempt some small deed,\" he answered.\n\n\"And the glove--is it your lady's?\"\n\n\"It is indeed my sweet wife's.\"\n\n\"Who is doubtless proud of you.\"\n\n\"Say rather I of her,\" quoth he quickly. \"God He knows that I am not\nworthy to be her humble servant. It is easy, lady, for a man to ride\nforth in the light of day, and do his devoir when all men have eyes for\nhim. But in a woman's heart there is a strength and truth which asks no\npraise, and can but be known to him whose treasure it is.\"\n\nThe Lady Tiphaine smiled across at her husband. \"You have often told\nme, Bertrand, that there were very gentle knights amongst the English,\"\nquoth she.\n\n\"Aye, aye,\" said he moodily. \"But to horse, Sir Nigel, you and yours\nand we shall seek the chateau of Sir Tristram de Rochefort, which is\ntwo miles on this side of Villefranche. He is Seneschal of Auvergne, and\nmine old war companion.\"\n\n\"Certes, he would have a welcome for you,\" quoth Sir Nigel; \"but indeed\nhe might look askance at one who comes without permit over the marches.\"\n\n\"By the Virgin! when he learns that you have come to draw away these\nrascals he will be very blithe to look upon your face. Inn-keeper, here\nare ten gold pieces. What is over and above your reckoning you may take\noff from your charges to the next needy knight who comes this way. Come\nthen, for it grows late and the horses are stamping in the roadway.\"\n\nThe Lady Tiphaine and her spouse sprang upon their steeds without\nsetting feet to stirrup, and away they jingled down the white moonlit\nhighway, with Sir Nigel at the lady's bridle-arm, and Ford a spear's\nlength behind them. Alleyne had lingered for an instant in the passage,\nand as he did so there came a wild outcry from a chamber upon the\nleft, and out there ran Aylward and John, laughing together like two\nschoolboys who are bent upon a prank. At sight of Alleyne they slunk\npast him with somewhat of a shame-faced air, and springing upon their\nhorses galloped after their party. The hubbub within the chamber did not\ncease, however, but rather increased, with yells of: \"A moi, mes amis! A\nmoi, camarades! A moi, l'honorable champion de l'Eveque de Montaubon! A\nla recousse de l'eglise sainte!\" So shrill was the outcry that both the\ninn-keeper and Alleyne, with every varlet within hearing, rushed wildly\nto the scene of the uproar.\n\nIt was indeed a singular scene which met their eyes. The room was a long\nand lofty one, stone floored and bare, with a fire at the further end\nupon which a great pot was boiling. A deal table ran down the centre,\nwith a wooden wine-pitcher upon it and two horn cups. Some way from it\nwas a smaller table with a single beaker and a broken wine-bottle. From\nthe heavy wooden rafters which formed the roof there hung rows of hooks\nwhich held up sides of bacon, joints of smoked beef, and strings of\nonions for winter use. In the very centre of all these, upon the\nlargest hook of all, there hung a fat little red-faced man with enormous\nwhiskers, kicking madly in the air and clawing at rafters, hams, and\nall else that was within hand-grasp. The huge steel hook had been passed\nthrough the collar of his leather jerkin, and there he hung like a fish\non a line, writhing, twisting, and screaming, but utterly unable to free\nhimself from his extraordinary position. It was not until Alleyne and\nthe landlord had mounted on the table that they were able to lift him\ndown, when he sank gasping with rage into a seat, and rolled his eyes\nround in every direction.\n\n\"Has he gone?\" quoth he.\n\n\"Gone? Who?\"\n\n\"He, the man with the red head, the giant man.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Alleyne, \"he hath gone.\"\n\n\"And comes not back?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"The better for him!\" cried the little man, with a long sigh of relief.\n\"Mon Dieu! What! am I not the champion of the Bishop of Montaubon? Ah,\ncould I have descended, could I have come down, ere he fled! Then you\nwould have seen. You would have beheld a spectacle then. There would\nhave been one rascal the less upon earth. Ma foi, yes!\"\n\n\"Good master Pelligny,\" said the landlord, \"these gentlemen have not\ngone very fast, and I have a horse in the stable at your disposal, for\nI would rather have such bloody doings as you threaten outside the four\nwalls of mine auberge.\"\n\n\"I hurt my leg and cannot ride,\" quoth the bishop's champion. \"I\nstrained a sinew on the day that I slew the three men at Castelnau.\"\n\n\"God save you, master Pelligny!\" cried the landlord. \"It must be an\nawesome thing to have so much blood upon one's soul. And yet I do not\nwish to see so valiant a man mishandled, and so I will, for friendship's\nsake, ride after this Englishman and bring him back to you.\"\n\n\"You shall not stir,\" cried the champion, seizing the inn-keeper in a\nconvulsive grasp. \"I have a love for you, Gaston, and I would not\nbring your house into ill repute, nor do such scath to these walls and\nchattels as must befall if two such men as this Englishman and I fall to\nwork here.\"\n\n\"Nay, think not of me!\" cried the inn-keeper. \"What are my walls when\nset against the honor of Francois Poursuivant d'Amour Pelligny, champion\nof the Bishop of Montaubon. My horse, Andre!\"\n\n\"By the saints, no! Gaston, I will not have it! You have said truly that\nit is an awesome thing to have such rough work upon one's soul. I am\nbut a rude soldier, yet I have a mind. Mon Dieu! I reflect, I weigh, I\nbalance. Shall I not meet this man again? Shall I not bear him in mind?\nShall I not know him by his great paws and his red head? Ma foi, yes!\"\n\n\"And may I ask, sir,\" said Alleyne, \"why it is that you call yourself\nchampion of the Bishop of Montaubon?\"\n\n\"You may ask aught which it is becoming to me to answer. The bishop hath\nneed of a champion, because, if any cause be set to test of combat, it\nwould scarce become his office to go down into the lists with leather\nand shield and cudgel to exchange blows with any varlet. He looks around\nhim then for some tried fighting man, some honest smiter who can give a\nblow or take one. It is not for me to say how far he hath succeeded, but\nit is sooth that he who thinks that he hath but to do with the Bishop of\nMontaubon, finds himself face to face with Francois Poursuivant d'Amour\nPelligny.\"\n\nAt this moment there was a clatter of hoofs upon the road, and a varlet\nby the door cried out that one of the Englishmen was coming back.\nThe champion looked wildly about for some corner of safety, and was\nclambering up towards the window, when Ford's voice sounded from\nwithout, calling upon Alleyne to hasten, or he might scarce find his\nway. Bidding adieu to landlord and to champion, therefore, he set off at\na gallop, and soon overtook the two archers.\n\n\"A pretty thing this, John,\" said he. \"Thou wilt have holy Church upon\nyou if you hang her champions upon iron hooks in an inn kitchen.\"\n\n\"It was done without thinking,\" he answered apologetically, while\nAylward burst into a shout of laughter.\n\n\"By my hilt! mon petit,\" said he, \"you would have laughed also could\nyou have seen it. For this man was so swollen with pride that he would\nneither drink with us, nor sit at the same table with us, nor as much as\nanswer a question, but must needs talk to the varlet all the time that\nit was well there was peace, and that he had slain more Englishmen than\nthere were tags to his doublet. Our good old John could scarce lay his\ntongue to French enough to answer him, so he must needs reach out his\ngreat hand to him and place him very gently where you saw him. But we\nmust on, for I can scarce hear their hoofs upon the road.\"\n\n\"I think that I can see them yet,\" said Ford, peering down the moonlit\nroad.\n\n\"Pardieu! yes. Now they ride forth from the shadow. And yonder dark\nclump is the Castle of Villefranche. En avant camarades! or Sir Nigel\nmay reach the gates before us. But hark, mes amis, what sound is that?\"\n\nAs he spoke the hoarse blast of a horn was heard from some woods upon\nthe right. An answering call rung forth upon their left, and hard upon\nit two others from behind them.\n\n\"They are the horns of swine-herds,\" quoth Aylward. \"Though why they\nblow them so late I cannot tell.\"\n\n\"Let us on, then,\" said Ford, and the whole party, setting their spurs\nto their horses, soon found themselves at the Castle of Villefranche,\nwhere the drawbridge had already been lowered and the portcullis raised\nin response to the summons of Du Guesclin.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX. HOW THE BLESSED HOUR OF SIGHT CAME TO THE LADY TIPHAINE.\n\n\nSir Tristram de Rochefort, Seneschal of Auvergne and Lord of\nVillefranche, was a fierce and renowned soldier who had grown gray in\nthe English wars. As lord of the marches and guardian of an exposed\ncountry-side, there was little rest for him even in times of so-called\npeace, and his whole life was spent in raids and outfalls upon the\nBrabanters, late-comers, flayers, free companions, and roving archers\nwho wandered over his province. At times he would come back in triumph,\nand a dozen corpses swinging from the summit of his keep would warn\nevil-doers that there was still a law in the land. At others his\nventures were not so happy, and he and his troop would spur it over\nthe drawbridge with clatter of hoofs hard at their heels and whistle of\narrows about their ears. Hard he was of hand and harder of heart, hated\nby his foes, and yet not loved by those whom he protected, for twice he\nhad been taken prisoner, and twice his ransom had been wrung by dint\nof blows and tortures out of the starving peasants and ruined farmers.\nWolves or watch-dogs, it was hard to say from which the sheep had most\nto fear.\n\nThe Castle of Villefranche was harsh and stern as its master. A broad\nmoat, a high outer wall turreted at the corners, with a great black keep\ntowering above all--so it lay before them in the moonlight. By the light\nof two flambeaux, protruded through the narrow slit-shaped openings at\neither side of the ponderous gate, they caught a glimpse of the glitter\nof fierce eyes and of the gleam of the weapons of the guard. The sight\nof the two-headed eagle of Du Guesclin, however, was a passport into\nany fortalice in France, and ere they had passed the gate the old border\nknight came running forwards with hands out-thrown to greet his famous\ncountryman. Nor was he less glad to see Sir Nigel, when the Englishman's\nerrand was explained to him, for these archers had been a sore thorn in\nhis side and had routed two expeditions which he had sent against them.\nA happy day it would be for the Seneschal of Auvergne when they should\nlearn that the last yew bow was over the marches.\n\nThe material for a feast was ever at hand in days when, if there was\ngrim want in the cottage, there was at least rude plenty in the castle.\nWithin an hour the guests were seated around a board which creaked under\nthe great pasties and joints of meat, varied by those more dainty\ndishes in which the French excelled, the spiced ortolan and the truffled\nbeccaficoes. The Lady Rochefort, a bright and laughter-loving dame, sat\nupon the left of her warlike spouse, with Lady Tiphaine upon the right.\nBeneath sat Du Guesclin and Sir Nigel, with Sir Amory Monticourt, of the\norder of the Hospitallers, and Sir Otto Harnit, a wandering knight\nfrom the kingdom of Bohemia. These with Alleyne and Ford, four French\nsquires, and the castle chaplain, made the company who sat together that\nnight and made good cheer in the Castle of Villefranche. The great fire\ncrackled in the grate, the hooded hawks slept upon their perches, the\nrough deer-hounds with expectant eyes crouched upon the tiled floor;\nclose at the elbows of the guests stood the dapper little lilac-coated\npages; the laugh and jest circled round and all was harmony and comfort.\nLittle they recked of the brushwood men who crouched in their rags along\nthe fringe of the forest and looked with wild and haggard eyes at the\nrich, warm glow which shot a golden bar of light from the high arched\nwindows of the castle.\n\nSupper over, the tables dormant were cleared away as by magic and\ntrestles and bancals arranged around the blazing fire, for there was a\nbitter nip in the air. The Lady Tiphaine had sunk back in her cushioned\nchair, and her long dark lashes drooped low over her sparkling eyes.\nAlleyne, glancing at her, noted that her breath came quick and short,\nand that her cheeks had blanched to a lily white. Du Guesclin eyed her\nkeenly from time to time, and passed his broad brown fingers through his\ncrisp, curly black hair with the air of a man who is perplexed in his\nmind.\n\n\"These folk here,\" said the knight of Bohemia, \"they do not seem too\nwell fed.\"\n\n\"Ah, canaille!\" cried the Lord of Villefranche. \"You would scarce credit\nit, and yet it is sooth that when I was taken at Poictiers it was all\nthat my wife and foster-brother could do to raise the money from them\nfor my ransom. The sulky dogs would rather have three twists of a rack,\nor the thumbikins for an hour, than pay out a denier for their own\nfeudal father and liege lord. Yet there is not one of them but hath an\nold stocking full of gold pieces hid away in a snug corner.\"\n\n\"Why do they not buy food then?\" asked Sir Nigel. \"By St. Paul! it\nseemed to me their bones were breaking through their skin.\"\n\n\"It is their grutching and grumbling which makes them thin. We have a\nsaying here, Sir Nigel, that if you pummel Jacques Bonhomme he will pat\nyou, but if you pat him he will pummel you. Doubtless you find it so in\nEngland.\"\n\n\"Ma foi, no!\" said Sir Nigel. \"I have two Englishmen of this class in\nmy train, who are at this instant, I make little doubt, as full of your\nwine as any cask in your cellar. He who pummelled them might come by\nsuch a pat as he would be likely to remember.\"\n\n\"I cannot understand it,\" quoth the seneschal, \"for the English knights\nand nobles whom I have met were not men to brook the insolence of the\nbase born.\"\n\n\"Perchance, my fair lord, the poor folk are sweeter and of a better\ncountenance in England,\" laughed the Lady Rochefort. \"Mon Dieu! you\ncannot conceive to yourself how ugly they are! Without hair, without\nteeth, all twisted and bent; for me, I cannot think how the good God\never came to make such people. I cannot bear it, I, and so my trusty\nRaoul goes ever before me with a cudgel to drive them from my path.\"\n\n\"Yet they have souls, fair lady, they have souls!\" murmured the\nchaplain, a white-haired man with a weary, patient face.\n\n\"So I have heard you tell them,\" said the lord of the castle; \"and for\nmyself, father, though I am a true son of holy Church, yet I think\nthat you were better employed in saying your mass and in teaching the\nchildren of my men-at-arms, than in going over the country-side to put\nideas in these folks' heads which would never have been there but for\nyou. I have heard that you have said to them that their souls are as\ngood as ours, and that it is likely that in another life they may stand\nas high as the oldest blood of Auvergne. For my part, I believe that\nthere are so many worthy knights and gallant gentlemen in heaven who\nknow how such things should be arranged, that there is little fear that\nwe shall find ourselves mixed up with base roturiers and swine-herds.\nTell your beads, father, and con your psalter, but do not come between\nme and those whom the king has given to me!\"\n\n\"God help them!\" cried the old priest. \"A higher King than yours has\ngiven them to me, and I tell you here in your own castle hall, Sir\nTristram de Rochefort, that you have sinned deeply in your dealings with\nthese poor folk, and that the hour will come, and may even now be at\nhand, when God's hand will be heavy upon you for what you have done.\" He\nrose as he spoke, and walked slowly from the room.\n\n\"Pest take him!\" cried the French knight. \"Now, what is a man to do with\na priest, Sir Bertrand?--for one can neither fight him like a man nor\ncoax him like a woman.\"\n\n\"Ah, Sir Bertrand knows, the naughty one!\" cried the Lady Rochefort.\n\"Have we not all heard how he went to Avignon and squeezed fifty\nthousand crowns out of the Pope.\"\n\n\"Ma foi!\" said Sir Nigel, looking with a mixture of horror and\nadmiration at Du Guesclin. \"Did not your heart sink within you? Were you\nnot smitten with fears? Have you not felt a curse hang over you?\"\n\n\"I have not observed it,\" said the Frenchman carelessly. \"But by Saint\nIves! Tristram, this chaplain of yours seems to me to be a worthy man,\nand you should give heed to his words, for though I care nothing for\nthe curse of a bad pope, it would be a grief to me to have aught but a\nblessing from a good priest.\"\n\n\"Hark to that, my fair lord,\" cried the Lady Rochefort. \"Take heed, I\npray thee, for I do not wish to have a blight cast over me, nor a palsy\nof the limbs. I remember that once before you angered Father Stephen,\nand my tire-woman said that I lost more hair in seven days than ever\nbefore in a month.\"\n\n\"If that be sign of sin, then, by Saint Paul! I have much upon my soul,\"\nsaid Sir Nigel, amid a general laugh. \"But in very truth, Sir Tristram,\nif I may venture a word of counsel, I should advise that you make your\npeace with this good man.\"\n\n\"He shall have four silver candlesticks,\" said the seneschal moodily.\n\"And yet I would that he would leave the folk alone. You cannot conceive\nin your mind how stubborn and brainless they are. Mules and pigs are\nfull of reason beside them. God He knows that I have had great patience\nwith them. It was but last week that, having to raise some money,\nI called up to the castle Jean Goubert, who, as all men know, has a\ncasketful of gold pieces hidden away in some hollow tree. I give you my\nword that I did not so much as lay a stripe upon his fool's back, but\nafter speaking with him, and telling him how needful the money was to\nme, I left him for the night to think over the matter in my dungeon.\nWhat think you that the dog did? Why, in the morning we found that he\nhad made a rope from strips of his leathern jerkin, and had hung himself\nto the bar of the window.\"\n\n\"For me, I cannot conceive such wickedness!\" cried the lady.\n\n\"And there was Gertrude Le Boeuf, as fair a maiden as eye could see, but\nas bad and bitter as the rest of them. When young Amory de Valance was\nhere last Lammastide he looked kindly upon the girl, and even spoke of\ntaking her into his service. What does she do, with her dog of a father?\nWhy, they tie themselves together and leap into the Linden Pool, where\nthe water is five spears'-lengths deep. I give you my word that it was\na great grief to young Amory, and it was days ere he could cast it\nfrom his mind. But how can one serve people who are so foolish and so\nungrateful?\"\n\nWhilst the Seneschal of Villefranche had been detailing the evil doings\nof his tenants, Alleyne had been unable to take his eyes from the face\nof Lady Tiphaine. She had lain back in her chair, with drooping eyelids\nand bloodless face, so that he had feared at first her journey had\nweighed heavily upon her, and that the strength was ebbing out of her.\nOf a sudden, however, there came a change, for a dash of bright color\nflickered up on to either cheek, and her lids were slowly raised again\nupon eyes which sparkled with such lustre as Alleyne had never seen\nin human eyes before, while their gaze was fixed intently, not on the\ncompany, but on the dark tapestry which draped the wall. So transformed\nand so ethereal was her expression, that Alleyne, in his loftiest dream\nof archangel or of seraph, had never pictured so sweet, so womanly, and\nyet so wise a face. Glancing at Du Guesclin, Alleyne saw that he also\nwas watching his wife closely, and from the twitching of his features,\nand the beads upon his brick-colored brow, it was easy to see that he\nwas deeply agitated by the change which he marked in her.\n\n\"How is it with you, lady?\" he asked at last, in a tremulous voice.\n\nHer eyes remained fixed intently upon the wall, and there was a long\npause ere she answered him. Her voice, too, which had been so clear\nand ringing, was now low and muffled as that of one who speaks from a\ndistance.\n\n\"All is very well with me, Bertrand,\" said she. \"The blessed hour of\nsight has come round to me again.\"\n\n\"I could see it come! I could see it come!\" he exclaimed, passing his\nfingers through his hair with the same perplexed expression as before.\n\n\"This is untoward, Sir Tristram,\" he said at last. \"And I scarce know\nin what words to make it clear to you, and to your fair wife, and to Sir\nNigel Loring, and to these other stranger knights. My tongue is a blunt\none, and fitter to shout word of command than to clear up such a matter\nas this, of which I can myself understand little. This, however, I know,\nthat my wife is come of a very sainted race, whom God hath in His\nwisdom endowed with wondrous powers, so that Tiphaine Raquenel was known\nthroughout Brittany ere ever I first saw her at Dinan. Yet these powers\nare ever used for good, and they are the gift of God and not of the\ndevil, which is the difference betwixt white magic and black.\"\n\n\"Perchance it would be as well that we should send for Father Stephen,\"\nsaid Sir Tristram.\n\n\"It would be best that he should come,\" cried the Hospitaller.\n\n\"And bring with him a flask of holy water,\" added the knight of Bohemia.\n\n\"Not so, gentlemen,\" answered Sir Bertrand. \"It is not needful that this\npriest should be called, and it is in my mind that in asking for this ye\ncast some slight shadow or slur upon the good name of my wife, as though\nit were still doubtful whether her power came to her from above or\nbelow. If ye have indeed such a doubt I pray that you will say so, that\nwe may discuss the matter in a fitting way.\"\n\n\"For myself,\" said Sir Nigel, \"I have heard such words fall from the\nlips of this lady that I am of the opinion that there is no woman,\nsave only one, who can be in any way compared to her in beauty and in\ngoodness. Should any gentleman think otherwise, I should deem it great\nhonor to run a small course with him, or debate the matter in whatever\nway might be most pleasing to him.\"\n\n\"Nay, it would ill become me to cast a slur upon a lady who is both\nmy guest and the wife of my comrade-in-arms,\" said the Seneschal of\nVillefranche. \"I have perceived also that on her mantle there is marked\na silver cross, which is surely sign enough that there is nought of evil\nin these strange powers which you say that she possesses.\"\n\nThis argument of the seneschal's appealed so powerfully to the Bohemian\nand to the Hospitaller that they at once intimated that their objections\nhad been entirely overcome, while even the Lady Rochefort, who had sat\nshivering and crossing herself, ceased to cast glances at the door, and\nallowed her fears to turn to curiosity.\n\n\"Among the gifts which have been vouchsafed to my wife,\" said Du\nGuesclin, \"there is the wondrous one of seeing into the future; but it\ncomes very seldom upon her, and goes as quickly, for none can command\nit. The blessed hour of sight, as she hath named it, has come but twice\nsince I have known her, and I can vouch for it that all that she hath\ntold me was true, for on the evening of the Battle of Auray she said\nthat the morrow would be an ill day for me and for Charles of Blois.\nEre the sun had sunk again he was dead, and I the prisoner of Sir John\nChandos. Yet it is not every question that she can answer, but only\nthose----\"\n\n\"Bertrand, Bertrand!\" cried the lady in the same muttering far-away\nvoice, \"the blessed hour passes. Use it, Bertrand, while you may.\"\n\n\"I will, my sweet. Tell me, then, what fortune comes upon me?\"\n\n\"Danger, Bertrand--deadly, pressing danger--which creeps upon you and\nyou know it not.\"\n\nThe French soldier burst into a thunderous laugh, and his green eyes\ntwinkled with amusement. \"At what time during these twenty years would\nnot that have been a true word?\" he cried. \"Danger is in the air that I\nbreathe. But is this so very close, Tiphaine?\"\n\n\"Here--now--close upon you!\" The words came out in broken, strenuous\nspeech, while the lady's fair face was writhed and drawn like that of\none who looks upon a horror which strikes the words from her lips. Du\nGuesclin gazed round the tapestried room, at the screens, the tables,\nthe abace, the credence, the buffet with its silver salver, and the\nhalf-circle of friendly, wondering faces. There was an utter stillness,\nsave for the sharp breathing of the Lady Tiphaine and for the gentle\nsoughing of the wind outside, which wafted to their ears the distant\ncall upon a swine-herd's horn.\n\n\"The danger may bide,\" said he, shrugging his broad shoulders. \"And now,\nTiphaine, tell us what will come of this war in Spain.\"\n\n\"I can see little,\" she answered, straining her eyes and puckering her\nbrow, as one who would fain clear her sight. \"There are mountains, and\ndry plains, and flash of arms and shouting of battle-cries. Yet it is\nwhispered to me that by failure you will succeed.\"\n\n\"Ha! Sir Nigel, how like you that?\" quoth Bertrand, shaking his head.\n\"It is like mead and vinegar, half sweet, half sour. And is there no\nquestion which you would ask my lady?\"\n\n\"Certes there is. I would fain know, fair lady, how all things are at\nTwynham Castle, and above all how my sweet lady employs herself.\"\n\n\"To answer this I would fain lay hand upon one whose thoughts turn\nstrongly to this castle which you have named. Nay, my Lord Loring, it is\nwhispered to me that there is another here who hath thought more deeply\nof it than you.\"\n\n\"Thought more of mine own home?\" cried Sir Nigel. \"Lady, I fear that in\nthis matter at least you are mistaken.\"\n\n\"Not so, Sir Nigel. Come hither, young man, young English squire with\nthe gray eyes! Now give me your hand, and place it here across my brow,\nthat I may see that which you have seen. What is this that rises before\nme? Mist, mist, rolling mist with a square black tower above it. See it\nshreds out, it thins, it rises, and there lies a castle in green plain,\nwith the sea beneath it, and a great church within a bow-shot. There are\ntwo rivers which run through the meadows, and between them lie the tents\nof the besiegers.\"\n\n\"The besiegers!\" cried Alleyne, Ford, and Sir Nigel, all three in a\nbreath.\n\n\"Yes, truly, and they press hard upon the castle, for they are an\nexceeding multitude and full of courage. See how they storm and rage\nagainst the gate, while some rear ladders, and others, line after line,\nsweep the walls with their arrows. There are many leaders who shout and\nbeckon, and one, a tall man with a golden beard, who stands before the\ngate stamping his foot and hallooing them on, as a pricker doth the\nhounds. But those in the castle fight bravely. There is a woman, two\nwomen, who stand upon the walls, and give heart to the men-at-arms. They\nshower down arrows, darts and great stones. Ah! they have struck down\nthe tall leader, and the others give back. The mist thickens and I can\nsee no more.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" said Sir Nigel, \"I do not think that there can be any\nsuch doings at Christchurch, and I am very easy of the fortalice so long\nas my sweet wife hangs the key of the outer bailey at the head of her\nbed. Yet I will not deny that you have pictured the castle as well as I\ncould have done myself, and I am full of wonderment at all that I have\nheard and seen.\"\n\n\"I would, Lady Tiphaine,\" cried the Lady Rochefort, \"that you would use\nyour power to tell me what hath befallen my golden bracelet which I wore\nwhen hawking upon the second Sunday of Advent, and have never set eyes\nupon since.\"\n\n\"Nay, lady,\" said du Guesclin, \"it does not befit so great and wondrous\na power to pry and search and play the varlet even to the beautiful\nchatelaine of Villefranche. Ask a worthy question, and, with the\nblessing of God, you shall have a worthy answer.\"\n\n\"Then I would fain ask,\" cried one of the French squires, \"as to which\nmay hope to conquer in these wars betwixt the English and ourselves.\"\n\n\"Both will conquer and each will hold its own,\" answered the Lady\nTiphaine.\n\n\"Then we shall still hold Gascony and Guienne?\" cried Sir Nigel.\n\nThe lady shook her head. \"French land, French blood, French speech,\" she\nanswered. \"They are French, and France shall have them.\"\n\n\"But not Bordeaux?\" cried Sir Nigel excitedly.\n\n\"Bordeaux also is for France.\"\n\n\"But Calais?\"\n\n\"Calais too.\"\n\n\"Woe worth me then, and ill hail to these evil words! If Bordeaux and\nCalais be gone, then what is left for England?\"\n\n\"It seems indeed that there are evil times coming upon your country,\"\nsaid Du Guesclin. \"In our fondest hopes we never thought to hold\nBordeaux. By Saint Ives! this news hath warmed the heart within me. Our\ndear country will then be very great in the future, Tiphaine?\"\n\n\"Great, and rich, and beautiful,\" she cried. \"Far down the course of\ntime I can see her still leading the nations, a wayward queen among the\npeoples, great in war, but greater in peace, quick in thought, deft in\naction, with her people's will for her sole monarch, from the sands of\nCalais to the blue seas of the south.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Du Guesclin, with his eyes flashing in triumph, \"you hear\nher, Sir Nigel?--and she never yet said word which was not sooth.\"\n\nThe English knight shook his head moodily. \"What of my own poor\ncountry?\" said he. \"I fear, lady, that what you have said bodes but\nsmall good for her.\"\n\nThe lady sat with parted lips, and her breath came quick and fast. \"My\nGod!\" she cried, \"what is this that is shown me? Whence come they, these\npeoples, these lordly nations, these mighty countries which rise up\nbefore me? I look beyond, and others rise, and yet others, far and\nfarther to the shores of the uttermost waters. They crowd! They swarm!\nThe world is given to them, and it resounds with the clang of their\nhammers and the ringing of their church bells. They call them many\nnames, and they rule them this way or that but they are all English,\nfor I can hear the voices of the people. On I go, and onwards over seas\nwhere man hath never yet sailed, and I see a great land under new\nstars and a stranger sky, and still the land is England. Where have her\nchildren not gone? What have they not done? Her banner is planted on\nice. Her banner is scorched in the sun. She lies athwart the lands, and\nher shadow is over the seas. Bertrand, Bertrand! we are undone for the\nbuds of her bud are even as our choicest flower!\" Her voice rose into\na wild cry, and throwing up her arms she sank back white and nerveless\ninto the deep oaken chair.\n\n\"It is over,\" said Du Guesclin moodily, as he raised her drooping head\nwith his strong brown hand. \"Wine for the lady, squire! The blessed hour\nof sight hath passed.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX. HOW THE BRUSHWOOD MEN CAME TO THE CHATEAU OF VILLEFRANCHE.\n\n\nIt was late ere Alleyne Edricson, having carried Sir Nigel the goblet\nof spiced wine which it was his custom to drink after the curling of his\nhair, was able at last to seek his chamber. It was a stone-flagged room\nupon the second floor, with a bed in a recess for him, and two smaller\npallets on the other side, on which Aylward and Hordle John were already\nsnoring. Alleyne had knelt down to his evening orisons, when there came\na tap at his door, and Ford entered with a small lamp in his hand. His\nface was deadly pale, and his hand shook until the shadows flickered up\nand down the wall.\n\n\"What is it, Ford?\" cried Alleyne, springing to his feet.\n\n\"I can scarce tell you,\" said he, sitting down on the side of the couch,\nand resting his chin upon his hand. \"I know not what to say or what to\nthink.\"\n\n\"Has aught befallen you, then?\"\n\n\"Yes, or I have been slave to my own fancy. I tell you, lad, that I am\nall undone, like a fretted bow-string. Hark hither, Alleyne! it\ncannot be that you have forgotten little Tita, the daughter of the old\nglass-stainer at Bordeaux?\"\n\n\"I remember her well.\"\n\n\"She and I, Alleyne, broke the lucky groat together ere we parted, and\nshe wears my ring upon her finger. 'Caro mio,' quoth she when last we\nparted, 'I shall be near thee in the wars, and thy danger will be my\ndanger.' Alleyne, as God is my help, as I came up the stairs this night\nI saw her stand before me, her face in tears, her hands out as though in\nwarning--I saw it, Alleyne, even as I see those two archers upon their\ncouches. Our very finger-tips seemed to meet, ere she thinned away like\na mist in the sunshine.\"\n\n\"I would not give overmuch thought to it,\" answered Alleyne. \"Our minds\nwill play us strange pranks, and bethink you that these words of the\nLady Tiphaine Du Guesclin have wrought upon us and shaken us.\"\n\nFord shook his head. \"I saw little Tita as clearly as though I were back\nat the Rue des Apotres at Bordeaux,\" said he. \"But the hour is late, and\nI must go.\"\n\n\"Where do you sleep, then?\"\n\n\"In the chamber above you. May the saints be with us all!\" He rose\nfrom the couch and left the chamber, while Alleyne could hear his feet\nsounding upon the winding stair. The young squire walked across to the\nwindow and gazed out at the moonlit landscape, his mind absorbed by\nthe thought of the Lady Tiphaine, and of the strange words that she\nhad spoken as to what was going forward at Castle Twynham. Leaning his\nelbows upon the stonework, he was deeply plunged in reverie, when in a\nmoment his thoughts were brought back to Villefranche and to the scene\nbefore him.\n\nThe window at which he stood was in the second floor of that portion of\nthe castle which was nearest to the keep. In front lay the broad moat,\nwith the moon lying upon its surface, now clear and round, now drawn\nlengthwise as the breeze stirred the waters. Beyond, the plain sloped\ndown to a thick wood, while further to the left a second wood shut\nout the view. Between the two an open glade stretched, silvered in the\nmoonshine, with the river curving across the lower end of it.\n\nAs he gazed, he saw of a sudden a man steal forth from the wood into the\nopen clearing. He walked with his head sunk, his shoulders curved, and\nhis knees bent, as one who strives hard to remain unseen. Ten paces from\nthe fringe of trees he glanced around, and waving his hand he crouched\ndown, and was lost to sight among a belt of furze-bushes. After him\nthere came a second man, and after him a third, a fourth, and a fifth\nstealing across the narrow open space and darting into the shelter of\nthe brushwood. Nine-and-seventy Alleyne counted of these dark figures\nflitting across the line of the moonlight. Many bore huge burdens upon\ntheir backs, though what it was that they carried he could not tell at\nthe distance. Out of the one wood and into the other they passed, all\nwith the same crouching, furtive gait, until the black bristle of trees\nhad swallowed up the last of them.\n\nFor a moment Alleyne stood in the window, still staring down at the\nsilent forest, uncertain as to what he should think of these midnight\nwalkers. Then he bethought him that there was one beside him who was\nfitter to judge on such a matter. His fingers had scarce rested upon\nAylward's shoulder ere the bowman was on his feet, with his hand\noutstretched to his sword.\n\n\"Qui va?\" he cried. \"Hola! mon petit. By my hilt! I thought there had\nbeen a camisade. What then, mon gar.?\"\n\n\"Come hither by the window, Aylward,\" said Alleyne. \"I have seen\nfour-score men pass from yonder shaw across the glade, and nigh every\nman of them had a great burden on his back. What think you of it?\"\n\n\"I think nothing of it, mon camarade! There are as many masterless folk\nin this country as there are rabbits on Cowdray Down, and there are many\nwho show their faces by night but would dance in a hempen collar if\nthey stirred forth in the day. On all the French marches are droves\nof outcasts, reivers, spoilers, and draw-latches, of whom I judge that\nthese are some, though I marvel that they should dare to come so nigh\nto the castle of the seneschal. All seems very quiet now,\" he added,\npeering out of the window.\n\n\"They are in the further wood,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"And there they may bide. Back to rest, mon petit; for, by my hilt! each\nday now will bring its own work. Yet it would be well to shoot the bolt\nin yonder door when one is in strange quarters. So!\" He threw himself\ndown upon his pallet and in an instant was fast asleep.\n\nIt might have been about three o'clock in the morning when Alleyne was\naroused from a troubled sleep by a low cry or exclamation. He listened,\nbut, as he heard no more, he set it down as the challenge of the guard\nupon the walls, and dropped off to sleep once more. A few minutes later\nhe was disturbed by a gentle creaking of his own door, as though some\none were pushing cautiously against it, and immediately afterwards he\nheard the soft thud of cautious footsteps upon the stair which led\nto the room above, followed by a confused noise and a muffled groan.\nAlleyne sat up on his couch with all his nerves in a tingle, uncertain\nwhether these sounds might come from a simple cause--some sick archer\nand visiting leech perhaps--or whether they might have a more sinister\nmeaning. But what danger could threaten them here in this strong castle,\nunder the care of famous warriors, with high walls and a broad moat\naround them? Who was there that could injure them? He had well-nigh\npersuaded himself that his fears were a foolish fancy, when his eyes\nfell upon that which sent the blood cold to his heart and left him\ngasping, with hands clutching at the counterpane.\n\nRight in front of him was the broad window of the chamber, with the moon\nshining brightly through it. For an instant something had obscured the\nlight, and now a head was bobbing up and down outside, the face looking\nin at him, and swinging slowly from one side of the window to the other.\nEven in that dim light there could be no mistaking those features.\nDrawn, distorted and blood-stained, they were still those of the young\nfellow-squire who had sat so recently upon his own couch. With a cry of\nhorror Alleyne sprang from his bed and rushed to the casement, while the\ntwo archers, aroused by the sound, seized their weapons and stared about\nthem in bewilderment. One glance was enough to show Edricson that his\nfears were but too true. Foully murdered, with a score of wounds upon\nhim and a rope round his neck, his poor friend had been cast from\nthe upper window and swung slowly in the night wind, his body rasping\nagainst the wall and his disfigured face upon a level with the casement.\n\n\"My God!\" cried Alleyne, shaking in every limb. \"What has come upon us?\nWhat devil's deed is this?\"\n\n\"Here is flint and steel,\" said John stolidly. \"The lamp, Aylward! This\nmoonshine softens a man's heart. Now we may use the eyes which God hath\ngiven us.\"\n\n\"By my hilt!\" cried Aylward, as the yellow flame flickered up, \"it is\nindeed young master Ford, and I think that this seneschal is a black\nvillain, who dare not face us in the day but would murther us in our\nsleep. By the twang of string! if I do not soak a goose's feather with\nhis heart's blood, it will be no fault of Samkin Aylward of the White\nCompany.\"\n\n\"But, Aylward, think of the men whom I saw yesternight,\" said Alleyne.\n\"It may not be the seneschal. It may be that others have come into the\ncastle. I must to Sir Nigel ere it be too late. Let me go, Aylward, for\nmy place is by his side.\"\n\n\"One moment, mon gar. Put that steel head-piece on the end of my\nyew-stave. So! I will put it first through the door; for it is ill to\ncome out when you can neither see nor guard yourself. Now, camarades,\nout swords and stand ready! Hola, by my hilt! it is time that we were\nstirring!\"\n\nAs he spoke, a sudden shouting broke forth in the castle, with the\nscream of a woman and the rush of many feet. Then came the sharp clink\nof clashing steel, and a roar like that of an angry lion--\"Notre Dame Du\nGuesclin! St. Ives! St. Ives!\" The bow-man pulled back the bolt of the\ndoor, and thrust out the headpiece at the end of the bow. A clash, the\nclatter of the steel-cap upon the ground, and, ere the man who struck\ncould heave up for another blow, the archer had passed his sword through\nhis body. \"On, camarades, on!\" he cried; and, breaking fiercely past two\nmen who threw themselves in his way, he sped down the broad corridor in\nthe direction of the shouting.\n\nA sharp turning, and then a second one, brought them to the head of a\nshort stair, from which they looked straight down upon the scene of the\nuproar. A square oak-floored hall lay beneath them, from which opened\nthe doors of the principal guest-chambers. This hall was as light as\nday, for torches burned in numerous sconces upon the walls, throwing\nstrange shadows from the tusked or antlered heads which ornamented them.\nAt the very foot of the stair, close to the open door of their chamber,\nlay the seneschal and his wife: she with her head shorn from her\nshoulders, he thrust through with a sharpened stake, which still\nprotruded from either side of his body. Three servants of the castle lay\ndead beside them, all torn and draggled, as though a pack of wolves had\nbeen upon them. In front of the central guest-chamber stood Du Guesclin\nand Sir Nigel, half-clad and unarmored, with the mad joy of battle\ngleaming in their eyes. Their heads were thrown back, their lips\ncompressed, their blood-stained swords poised over their right\nshoulders, and their left feet thrown out. Three dead men lay huddled\ntogether in front of them: while a fourth, with the blood squirting\nfrom a severed vessel, lay back with updrawn knees, breathing in\nwheezy gasps. Further back--all panting together, like the wind in a\ntree--there stood a group of fierce, wild creatures, bare-armed and\nbare-legged, gaunt, unshaven, with deep-set murderous eyes and wild\nbeast faces. With their flashing teeth, their bristling hair, their mad\nleapings and screamings, they seemed to Alleyne more like fiends from\nthe pit than men of flesh and blood. Even as he looked, they broke\ninto a hoarse yell and dashed once more upon the two knights, hurling\nthemselves madly upon their sword-points; clutching, scrambling, biting,\ntearing, careless of wounds if they could but drag the two soldiers to\nearth. Sir Nigel was thrown down by the sheer weight of them, and Sir\nBertrand with his thunderous war-cry was swinging round his heavy sword\nto clear a space for him to rise, when the whistle of two long English\narrows, and the rush of the squire and the two English archers down the\nstairs, turned the tide of the combat. The assailants gave back, the\nknights rushed forward, and in a very few moments the hall was cleared,\nand Hordle John had hurled the last of the wild men down the steep steps\nwhich led from the end of it.\n\n\"Do not follow them,\" cried Du Guesclin. \"We are lost if we scatter. For\nmyself I care not a denier, though it is a poor thing to meet one's end\nat the hands of such scum; but I have my dear lady here, who must by no\nmeans be risked. We have breathing-space now, and I would ask you, Sir\nNigel, what it is that you would counsel?\"\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" answered Sir Nigel, \"I can by no means understand what\nhath befallen us, save that I have been woken up by your battle-cry,\nand, rushing forth, found myself in the midst of this small bickering.\nHarrow and alas for the lady and the seneschal! What dogs are they who\nhave done this bloody deed?\"\n\n\"They are the Jacks, the men of the brushwood. They have the castle,\nthough I know not how it hath come to pass. Look from this window into\nthe bailey.\"\n\n\"By heaven!\" cried Sir Nigel, \"it is as bright as day with the torches.\nThe gates stand open, and there are three thousand of them within the\nwalls. See how they rush and scream and wave! What is it that they\nthrust out through the postern door? My God! it is a man-at-arms, and\nthey pluck him limb from limb like hounds on a wolf. Now another, and\nyet another. They hold the whole castle, for I see their faces at the\nwindows. See, there are some with great bundles on their backs.\"\n\n\"It is dried wood from the forest. They pile them against the walls and\nset them in a blaze. Who is this who tries to check them? By St. Ives!\nit is the good priest who spake for them in the hall. He kneels, he\nprays, he implores! What! villains, would ye raise hands against those\nwho have befriended you? Ah, the butcher has struck him! He is down!\nThey stamp him under their feet! They tear off his gown and wave it in\nthe air! See now, how the flames lick up the walls! Are there none left\nto rally round us? With a hundred men we might hold our own.\"\n\n\"Oh, for my Company!\" cried Sir Nigel. \"But where is Ford, Alleyne?\"\n\n\"He is foully murdered, my fair lord.\"\n\n\"The saints receive him! May he rest in peace! But here come some at\nlast who may give us counsel, for amid these passages it is ill to stir\nwithout a guide.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a French squire and the Bohemian knight came rushing down\nthe steps, the latter bleeding from a slash across his forehead.\n\n\"All is lost!\" he cried. \"The castle is taken and on fire, the seneschal\nis slain, and there is nought left for us.\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"there is much left to us, for there\nis a very honorable contention before us, and a fair lady for whom to\ngive our lives. There are many ways in which a man might die, but none\nbetter than this.\"\n\n\"You can tell us, Godfrey,\" said Du Guesclin to the French squire: \"how\ncame these men into the castle, and what succors can we count upon? By\nSt. Ives! if we come not quickly to some counsel we shall be burned like\nyoung rooks in a nest.\"\n\nThe squire, a dark, slender stripling, spoke firmly and quickly, as one\nwho was trained to swift action. \"There is a passage under the earth\ninto the castle,\" said he, \"and through it some of the Jacks made their\nway, casting open the gates for the others. They have had help from\nwithin the walls, and the men-at-arms were heavy with wine: they must\nhave been slain in their beds, for these devils crept from room to room\nwith soft step and ready knife. Sir Amory the Hospitaller was struck\ndown with an axe as he rushed before us from his sleeping-chamber. Save\nonly ourselves, I do not think that there are any left alive.\"\n\n\"What, then, would you counsel?\"\n\n\"That we make for the keep. It is unused, save in time of war, and the\nkey hangs from my poor lord and master's belt.\"\n\n\"There are two keys there.\"\n\n\"It is the larger. Once there, we might hold the narrow stair; and at\nleast, as the walls are of a greater thickness, it would be longer ere\nthey could burn them. Could we but carry the lady across the bailey, all\nmight be well with us.\"\n\n\"Nay; the lady hath seen something of the work of war,\" said Tiphaine\ncoming forth, as white, as grave, and as unmoved as ever. \"I would not\nbe a hamper to you, my dear spouse and gallant friend. Rest assured of\nthis, that if all else fail I have always a safeguard here\"--drawing a\nsmall silver-hilted poniard from her bosom--\"which sets me beyond the\nfear of these vile and blood-stained wretches.\"\n\n\"Tiphaine,\" cried Du Guesclin, \"I have always loved you; and now, by Our\nLady of Rennes! I love you more than ever. Did I not know that your hand\nwill be as ready as your words I would myself turn my last blow upon\nyou, ere you should fall into their hands. Lead on, Godfrey! A new\ngolden pyx will shine in the minster of Dinan if we come safely through\nwith it.\"\n\nThe attention of the insurgents had been drawn away from murder to\nplunder, and all over the castle might be heard their cries and whoops\nof delight as they dragged forth the rich tapestries, the silver\nflagons, and the carved furniture. Down in the courtyard half-clad\nwretches, their bare limbs all mottled with blood-stains, strutted\nabout with plumed helmets upon their heads, or with the Lady Rochefort's\nsilken gowns girt round their loins and trailing on the ground behind\nthem. Casks of choice wine had been rolled out from the cellars, and\nstarving peasants squatted, goblet in hand, draining off vintages which\nDe Rochefort had set aside for noble and royal guests. Others, with\nslabs of bacon and joints of dried meat upon the ends of their pikes,\nheld them up to the blaze or tore at them ravenously with their teeth.\nYet all order had not been lost amongst them, for some hundreds of the\nbetter armed stood together in a silent group, leaning upon their rude\nweapons and looking up at the fire, which had spread so rapidly as to\ninvolve one whole side of the castle. Already Alleyne could hear the\ncrackling and roaring of the flames, while the air was heavy with heat\nand full of the pungent whiff of burning wood.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI. HOW FIVE MEN HELD THE KEEP OF VILLEFRANCHE\n\n\nUnder the guidance of the French squire the party passed down two narrow\ncorridors. The first was empty, but at the head of the second stood a\npeasant sentry, who started off at the sight of them, yelling loudly to\nhis comrades. \"Stop him, or we are undone!\" cried Du Guesclin, and had\nstarted to run, when Aylward's great war-bow twanged like a harp-string,\nand the man fell forward upon his face, with twitching limbs and\nclutching fingers. Within five paces of where he lay a narrow and\nlittle-used door led out into the bailey. From beyond it came such a\nBabel of hooting and screaming, horrible oaths and yet more horrible\nlaughter, that the stoutest heart might have shrunk from casting down\nthe frail barrier which faced them.\n\n\"Make straight for the keep!\" said Du Guesclin, in a sharp, stern\nwhisper. \"The two archers in front, the lady in the centre, a squire\non either side, while we three knights shall bide behind and beat back\nthose who press upon us. So! Now open the door, and God have us in his\nholy keeping!\"\n\nFor a few moments it seemed that their object would be attained without\ndanger, so swift and so silent had been their movements. They were\nhalf-way across the bailey ere the frantic, howling peasants made a\nmovement to stop them. The few who threw themselves in their way were\noverpowered or brushed aside, while the pursuers were beaten back by the\nready weapons of the three cavaliers. Unscathed they fought their way to\nthe door of the keep, and faced round upon the swarming mob, while the\nsquire thrust the great key into the lock.\n\n\"My God!\" he cried, \"it is the wrong key.\"\n\n\"The wrong key!\"\n\n\"Dolt, fool that I am! This is the key of the castle gate; the other\nopens the keep. I must back for it!\" He turned, with some wild intention\nof retracing his steps, but at the instant a great jagged rock, hurled\nby a brawny peasant, struck him full upon the ear, and he dropped\nsenseless to the ground.\n\n\"This is key enough for me!\" quoth Hordle John, picking up the huge\nstone, and hurling it against the door with all the strength of his\nenormous body. The lock shivered, the wood smashed, the stone flew into\nfive pieces, but the iron clamps still held the door in its position.\nBending down, he thrust his great fingers under it, and with a heave\nraised the whole mass of wood and iron from its hinges. For a moment it\ntottered and swayed, and then, falling outward, buried him in its ruin,\nwhile his comrades rushed into the dark archway which led to safety.\n\n\"Up the steps, Tiphaine!\" cried Du Guesclin. \"Now round, friends, and\nbeat them back!\" The mob of peasants had surged in upon their heels, but\nthe two trustiest blades in Europe gleamed upon that narrow stair, and\nfour of their number dropped upon the threshold. The others gave back,\nand gathered in a half circle round the open door, gnashing their teeth\nand shaking their clenched hands at the defenders. The body of the\nFrench squire had been dragged out by them and hacked to pieces. Three\nor four others had pulled John from under the door, when he suddenly\nbounded to his feet, and clutching one in either hand dashed them\ntogether with such force that they fell senseless across each other upon\nthe ground. With a kick and a blow he freed himself from two others\nwho clung to him, and in a moment he was within the portal with his\ncomrades.\n\nYet their position was a desperate one. The peasants from far and near\nhad been assembled for this deed of vengeance, and not less than six\nthousand were within or around the walls of the Chateau of Villefranche.\nIll armed and half starved, they were still desperate men, to whom\ndanger had lost all fears: for what was death that they should shun\nit to cling to such a life as theirs? The castle was theirs, and the\nroaring flames were spurting through the windows and flickering high\nabove the turrets on two sides of the quadrangle. From either side they\nwere sweeping down from room to room and from bastion to bastion in the\ndirection of the keep. Faced by an army, and girt in by fire, were six\nmen and one woman; but some of them were men so trained to danger and\nso wise in war that even now the combat was less unequal than it seemed.\nCourage and resource were penned in by desperation and numbers, while\nthe great yellow sheets of flame threw their lurid glare over the scene\nof death.\n\n\"There is but space for two upon a step to give free play to our\nsword-arms,\" said Du Guesclin. \"Do you stand with me, Nigel, upon the\nlowest. France and England will fight together this night. Sir Otto, I\npray you to stand behind us with this young squire. The archers may go\nhigher yet and shoot over our heads. I would that we had our harness,\nNigel.\"\n\n\"Often have I heard my dear Sir John Chandos say that a knight should\nnever, even when a guest, be parted from it. Yet it will be more honor\nto us if we come well out of it. We have a vantage, since we see them\nagainst the light and they can scarce see us. It seems to me that they\nmuster for an onslaught.\"\n\n\"If we can but keep them in play,\" said the Bohemian, \"it is likely\nthat these flames may bring us succor if there be any true men in the\ncountry.\"\n\n\"Bethink you, my fair lord,\" said Alleyne to Sir Nigel, \"that we have\nnever injured these men, nor have we cause of quarrel against them.\nWould it not be well, if but for the lady's sake, to speak them fair and\nsee if we may not come to honorable terms with them?\"\n\n\"Not so, by St. Paul!\" cried Sir Nigel. \"It does not accord with mine\nhonor, nor shall it ever be said that I, a knight of England, was ready\nto hold parley with men who have slain a fair lady and a holy priest.\"\n\n\"As well hold parley with a pack of ravening wolves,\" said the French\ncaptain. \"Ha! Notre Dame Du Guesclin! Saint Ives! Saint Ives!\"\n\nAs he thundered forth his war-cry, the Jacks who had been gathering\nbefore the black arch of the gateway rushed in madly in a desperate\neffort to carry the staircase. Their leaders were a small man, dark in\nthe face, with his beard done up in two plaits, and another larger man,\nvery bowed in the shoulders, with a huge club studded with sharp nails\nin his hand. The first had not taken three steps ere an arrow from\nAylward's bow struck him full in the chest, and he fell coughing and\nspluttering across the threshold. The other rushed onwards, and breaking\nbetween Du Guesclin and Sir Nigel he dashed out the brains of the\nBohemian with a single blow of his clumsy weapon. With three swords\nthrough him he still struggled on, and had almost won his way through\nthem ere he fell dead upon the stair. Close at his heels came a hundred\nfurious peasants, who flung themselves again and again against the five\nswords which confronted them. It was cut and parry and stab as quick as\neye could see or hand act. The door was piled with bodies, and the stone\nfloor was slippery with blood. The deep shout of Du Guesclin, the hard,\nhissing breath of the pressing multitude, the clatter of steel, the\nthud of falling bodies, and the screams of the stricken, made up such\na medley as came often in after years to break upon Alleyne's sleep.\nSlowly and sullenly at last the throng drew off, with many a fierce\nbackward glance, while eleven of their number lay huddled in front of\nthe stair which they had failed to win.\n\n\"The dogs have had enough,\" said Du Guesclin.\n\n\"By Saint Paul! there appear to be some very worthy and valiant persons\namong them,\" observed Sir Nigel. \"They are men from whom, had they been\nof better birth, much honor and advancement might be gained. Even as it\nis, it is a great pleasure to have seen them. But what is this that they\nare bringing forward?\"\n\n\"It is as I feared,\" growled Du Guesclin. \"They will burn us out, since\nthey cannot win their way past us. Shoot straight and hard, archers;\nfor, by St. Ives! our good swords are of little use to us.\"\n\nAs he spoke, a dozen men rushed forward, each screening himself behind a\nhuge fardel of brushwood. Hurling their burdens in one vast heap within\nthe portal, they threw burning torches upon the top of it. The wood\nhad been soaked in oil, for in an instant it was ablaze, and a long,\nhissing, yellow flame licked over the heads of the defenders, and drove\nthem further up to the first floor of the keep. They had scarce reached\nit, however, ere they found that the wooden joists and planks of the\nflooring were already on fire. Dry and worm-eaten, a spark upon them\nbecame a smoulder, and a smoulder a blaze. A choking smoke filled the\nair, and the five could scarce grope their way to the staircase which\nled up to the very summit of the square tower.\n\nStrange was the scene which met their eyes from this eminence. Beneath\nthem on every side stretched the long sweep of peaceful country,\nrolling plain, and tangled wood, all softened and mellowed in the silver\nmoonshine. No light, nor movement, nor any sign of human aid could be\nseen, but far away the hoarse clangor of a heavy bell rose and fell upon\nthe wintry air. Beneath and around them blazed the huge fire, roaring\nand crackling on every side of the bailey, and even as they looked the\ntwo corner turrets fell in with a deafening crash, and the whole castle\nwas but a shapeless mass, spouting flames and smoke from every window\nand embrasure. The great black tower upon which they stood rose like a\nlast island of refuge amid this sea of fire but the ominous crackling\nand roaring below showed that it would not be long ere it was engulfed\nalso in the common ruin. At their very feet was the square courtyard,\ncrowded with the howling and dancing peasants, their fierce faces\nupturned, their clenched hands waving, all drunk with bloodshed and with\nvengeance. A yell of execration and a scream of hideous laughter burst\nfrom the vast throng, as they saw the faces of the last survivors of\ntheir enemies peering down at them from the height of the keep. They\nstill piled the brushwood round the base of the tower, and gambolled\nhand in hand around the blaze, screaming out the doggerel lines which\nhad long been the watchword of the Jacquerie:\n\n        Cessez, cessez, gens d'armes et pietons,\n        De piller et manger le bonhomme\n        Qui de longtemps Jacques Bonhomme\n          Se nomme.\n\nTheir thin, shrill voices rose high above the roar of the flames and the\ncrash of the masonry, like the yelping of a pack of wolves who see their\nquarry before them and know that they have well-nigh run him down.\n\n\"By my hilt!\" said Aylward to John, \"it is in my mind that we shall not\nsee Spain this journey. It is a great joy to me that I have placed\nmy feather-bed and other things of price with that worthy woman at\nLyndhurst, who will now have the use of them. I have thirteen arrows\nyet, and if one of them fly unfleshed, then, by the twang of string! I\nshall deserve my doom. First at him who flaunts with my lady's silken\nfrock. Clap in the clout, by God! though a hand's-breadth lower than\nI had meant. Now for the rogue with the head upon his pike. Ha! to\nthe inch, John. When my eye is true, I am better at rovers than at\nlong-butts or hoyles. A good shoot for you also, John! The villain hath\nfallen forward into the fire. But I pray you, John, to loose gently, and\nnot to pluck with the drawing-hand, for it is a trick that hath marred\nmany a fine bowman.\"\n\nWhilst the two archers were keeping up a brisk fire upon the mob beneath\nthem, Du Guesclin and his lady were consulting with Sir Nigel upon their\ndesperate situation.\n\n\"'Tis a strange end for one who has seen so many stricken fields,\" said\nthe French chieftain. \"For me one death is as another, but it is the\nthought of my sweet lady which goes to my heart.\"\n\n\"Nay, Bertrand, I fear it as little as you,\" said she. \"Had I my dearest\nwish, it would be that we should go together.\"\n\n\"Well answered, fair lady!\" cried Sir Nigel. \"And very sure I am that my\nown sweet wife would have said the same. If the end be now come, I have\nhad great good fortune in having lived in times when so much glory was\nto be won, and in knowing so many valiant gentlemen and knights. But why\ndo you pluck my sleeve, Alleyne?\"\n\n\"If it please you, my fair lord, there are in this corner two great\ntubes of iron, with many heavy balls, which may perchance be those\nbombards and shot of which I have heard.\"\n\n\"By Saint Ives! it is true,\" cried Sir Bertrand, striding across to\nthe recess where the ungainly, funnel-shaped, thick-ribbed engines were\nstanding. \"Bombards they are, and of good size. We may shoot down upon\nthem.\"\n\n\"Shoot with them, quotha?\" cried Aylward in high disdain, for pressing\ndanger is the great leveller of classes. \"How is a man to take aim with\nthese fool's toys, and how can he hope to do scath with them?\"\n\n\"I will show you,\" answered Sir Nigel; \"for here is the great box of\npowder, and if you will raise it for me, John, I will show you how it\nmay be used. Come hither, where the folk are thickest round the fire.\nNow, Aylward, crane thy neck and see what would have been deemed an old\nwife's tale when we first turned our faces to the wars. Throw back the\nlid, John, and drop the box into the fire!\"\n\nA deafening roar, a fluff of bluish light, and the great square tower\nrocked and trembled from its very foundations, swaying this way and that\nlike a reed in the wind. Amazed and dizzy, the defenders, clutching at\nthe cracking parapets for support, saw great stones, burning beams of\nwood, and mangled bodies hurtling past them through the air. When they\nstaggered to their feet once more, the whole keep had settled down upon\none side, so that they could scarce keep their footing upon the sloping\nplatform. Gazing over the edge, they looked down upon the horrible\ndestruction which had been caused by the explosion. For forty yards\nround the portal the ground was black with writhing, screaming figures,\nwho struggled up and hurled themselves down again, tossing this way\nand that, sightless, scorched, with fire bursting from their tattered\nclothing. Beyond this circle of death their comrades, bewildered and\namazed, cowered away from this black tower and from these invincible\nmen, who were most to be dreaded when hope was furthest from their\nhearts.\n\n\"A sally, Du Guesclin, a sally!\" cried Sir Nigel. \"By Saint Paul! they\nare in two minds, and a bold rush may turn them.\" He drew his sword as\nhe spoke and darted down the winding stairs, closely followed by his\nfour comrades. Ere he was at the first floor, however, he threw up his\narms and stopped. \"Mon Dieu!\" he said, \"we are lost men!\"\n\n\"What then?\" cried those behind him.\n\n\"The wall hath fallen in, the stair is blocked, and the fire still rages\nbelow. By Saint Paul! friends, we have fought a very honorable fight,\nand may say in all humbleness that we have done our devoir, but I think\nthat we may now go back to the Lady Tiphaine and say our orisons, for we\nhave played our parts in this world, and it is time that we made ready\nfor another.\"\n\nThe narrow pass was blocked by huge stones littered in wild confusion\nover each other, with the blue choking smoke reeking up through the\ncrevices. The explosion had blown in the wall and cut off the only path\nby which they could descend. Pent in, a hundred feet from earth, with\na furnace raging under them and a ravening multitude all round who\nthirsted for their blood, it seemed indeed as though no men had ever\ncome through such peril with their lives. Slowly they made their way\nback to the summit, but as they came out upon it the Lady Tiphaine\ndarted forward and caught her husband by the wrist.\n\n\"Bertrand,\" said she, \"hush and listen! I have heard the voices of men\nall singing together in a strange tongue.\"\n\nBreathless they stood and silent, but no sound came up to them, save the\nroar of the flames and the clamor of their enemies.\n\n\"It cannot be, lady,\" said Du Guesclin. \"This night hath over wrought\nyou, and your senses play you false. What men are there in this country\nwho would sing in a strange tongue?\"\n\n\"Hola!\" yelled Aylward, leaping suddenly into the air with waving hands\nand joyous face. \"I thought I heard it ere we went down, and now I hear\nit again. We are saved, comrades! By these ten finger-bones, we are\nsaved! It is the marching song of the White Company. Hush!\"\n\nWith upraised forefinger and slanting head, he stood listening. Suddenly\nthere came swelling up a deep-voiced, rollicking chorus from somewhere\nout of the darkness. Never did choice or dainty ditty of Provence or\nLanguedoc sound more sweetly in the ears than did the rough-tongued\nSaxon to the six who strained their ears from the blazing keep:\n\n        We'll drink all together\n        To the gray goose feather\n          And the land where the gray goose flew.\n\n\"Ha, by my hilt!\" shouted Aylward, \"it is the dear old bow song of the\nCompany. Here come two hundred as tight lads as ever twirled a shaft\nover their thumbnails. Hark to the dogs, how lustily they sing!\"\n\nNearer and clearer, swelling up out of the night, came the gay marching\nlilt:\n\n        What of the bow?\n           The bow was made in England.\n        Of true wood, of yew wood,\n           The wood of English bows;\n        For men who are free\n        Love the old yew-tree\n           And the land where the yew tree grows.\n\n        What of the men?\n           The men were bred in England,\n        The bowmen, the yeomen,\n           The lads of the dale and fell,\n        Here's to you and to you,\n        To the hearts that are true,\n           And the land where the true hearts dwell.\n\n\"They sing very joyfully,\" said Du Guesclin, \"as though they were going\nto a festival.\"\n\n\"It is their wont when there is work to be done.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" quoth Sir Nigel, \"it is in my mind that they come too\nlate, for I cannot see how we are to come down from this tower.\"\n\n\"There they come, the hearts of gold!\" cried Aylward. \"See, they move\nout from the shadow. Now they cross the meadow. They are on the further\nside of the moat. Hola camarades, hola! Johnston, Eccles, Cooke,\nHarward, Bligh! Would ye see a fair lady and two gallant knights done\nfoully to death?\"\n\n\"Who is there?\" shouted a deep voice from below. \"Who is this who speaks\nwith an English tongue?\"\n\n\"It is I, old lad. It is Sam Aylward of the Company; and here is your\ncaptain, Sir Nigel Loring, and four others, all laid out to be grilled\nlike an Easterling's herrings.\"\n\n\"Curse me if I did not think that it was the style of speech of old\nSamkin Aylward,\" said the voice, amid a buzz from the ranks. \"Wherever\nthere are knocks going there is Sammy in the heart of it. But who are\nthese ill-faced rogues who block the path? To your kennels, canaille!\nWhat! you dare look us in the eyes? Out swords, lads, and give them the\nflat of them! Waste not your shafts upon such runagate knaves.\"\n\nThere was little fight left in the peasants, however, still dazed by the\nexplosion, amazed at their own losses and disheartened by the arrival of\nthe disciplined archers. In a very few minutes they were in full flight\nfor their brushwood homes, leaving the morning sun to rise upon a\nblackened and blood-stained ruin, where it had left the night before the\nmagnificent castle of the Seneschal of Auvergne. Already the white lines\nin the east were deepening into pink as the archers gathered round the\nkeep and took counsel how to rescue the survivors.\n\n\"Had we a rope,\" said Alleyne, \"there is one side which is not yet on\nfire, down which we might slip.\"\n\n\"But how to get a rope?\"\n\n\"It is an old trick,\" quoth Aylward. \"Hola! Johnston, cast me up a rope,\neven as you did at Maupertuis in the war time.\"\n\nThe grizzled archer thus addressed took several lengths of rope from his\ncomrades, and knotting them firmly together, he stretched them out in\nthe long shadow which the rising sun threw from the frowning keep. Then\nhe fixed the yew-stave of his bow upon end and measured the long, thin,\nblack line which it threw upon the turf.\n\n\"A six-foot stave throws a twelve-foot shadow,\" he muttered. \"The keep\nthrows a shadow of sixty paces. Thirty paces of rope will be enow and to\nspare. Another strand, Watkin! Now pull at the end that all may be safe.\nSo! It is ready for them.\"\n\n\"But how are they to reach it?\" asked the young archer beside him.\n\n\"Watch and see, young fool's-head,\" growled the old bowman. He took a\nlong string from his pouch and fastened one end to an arrow.\n\n\"All ready, Samkin?\"\n\n\"Ready, camarade.\"\n\n\"Close to your hand then.\" With an easy pull he sent the shaft\nflickering gently up, falling upon the stonework within a foot of where\nAylward was standing. The other end was secured to the rope, so that in\na minute a good strong cord was dangling from the only sound side of the\nblazing and shattered tower. The Lady Tiphaine was lowered with a noose\ndrawn fast under the arms, and the other five slid swiftly down, amid\nthe cheers and joyous outcry of their rescuers.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII. HOW THE COMPANY TOOK COUNSEL ROUND THE FALLEN TREE.\n\n\n\"Where is Sir Claude Latour?\" asked Sir Nigel, as his feet touched\nground.\n\n\"He is in camp, near Montpezat, two hours' march from here, my fair\nlord,\" said Johnston, the grizzled bowman who commanded the archers.\n\n\"Then we shall march thither, for I would fain have you all back at Dax\nin time to be in the prince's vanguard.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" cried Alleyne, joyfully, \"here are our chargers in the field,\nand I see your harness amid the plunder which these rogues have left\nbehind them.\"\n\n\"By Saint Ives! you speak sooth, young squire,\" said Du Guesclin. \"There\nis my horse and my lady's jennet. The knaves led them from the stables,\nbut fled without them. Now, Nigel, it is great joy to me to have seen\none of whom I have often heard. Yet we must leave you now, for I must be\nwith the King of Spain ere your army crosses the mountains.\"\n\n\"I had thought that you were in Spain with the valiant Henry of\nTrastamare.\"\n\n\"I have been there, but I came to France to raise succor for him. I\nshall ride back, Nigel, with four thousand of the best lances of France\nat my back, so that your prince may find he hath a task which is worthy\nof him. God be with you, friend, and may we meet again in better times!\"\n\n\"I do not think,\" said Sir Nigel, as he stood by Alleyne's side looking\nafter the French knight and his lady, \"that in all Christendom you will\nmeet with a more stout-hearted man or a fairer and sweeter dame. But\nyour face is pale and sad, Alleyne! Have you perchance met with some\nhurt during the ruffle?\"\n\n\"Nay, my fair lord, I was but thinking of my friend Ford, and how he sat\nupon my couch no later than yesternight.\"\n\nSir Nigel shook his head sadly. \"Two brave squires have I lost,\" said\nhe. \"I know not why the young shoots should be plucked, and an old weed\nleft standing, yet certes there must be some good reason, since God hath\nso planned it. Did you not note, Alleyne, that the Lady Tiphaine did\ngive us warning last night that danger was coming upon us?\"\n\n\"She did, my lord.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul! my mind misgives me as to what she saw at Twynham\nCastle. And yet I cannot think that any Scottish or French rovers could\nland in such force as to beleaguer the fortalice. Call the Company\ntogether, Aylward; and let us on, for it will be shame to us if we are\nnot at Dax upon the trysting day.\"\n\nThe archers had spread themselves over the ruins, but a blast upon a\nbugle brought them all back to muster, with such booty as they could\nbear with them stuffed into their pouches or slung over their shoulders.\nAs they formed into ranks, each man dropping silently into his place,\nSir Nigel ran a questioning eye over them, and a smile of pleasure\nplayed over his face. Tall and sinewy, and brown, clear-eyed,\nhard-featured, with the stern and prompt bearing of experienced\nsoldiers, it would be hard indeed for a leader to seek for a choicer\nfollowing. Here and there in the ranks were old soldiers of the French\nwars, grizzled and lean, with fierce, puckered features and shaggy,\nbristling brows. The most, however, were young and dandy archers, with\nfresh English faces, their beards combed out, their hair curling from\nunder their close steel hufkens, with gold or jewelled earrings gleaming\nin their ears, while their gold-spangled baldrics, their silken belts,\nand the chains which many of them wore round their thick brown necks,\nall spoke of the brave times which they had had as free companions. Each\nhad a yew or hazel stave slung over his shoulder, plain and serviceable\nwith the older men, but gaudily painted and carved at either end with\nthe others. Steel caps, mail brigandines, white surcoats with the red\nlion of St. George, and sword or battle-axe swinging from their belts,\ncompleted this equipment, while in some cases the murderous maule or\nfive-foot mallet was hung across the bowstave, being fastened to their\nleathern shoulder-belt by a hook in the centre of the handle. Sir\nNigel's heart beat high as he looked upon their free bearing and\nfearless faces.\n\nFor two hours they marched through forest and marshland, along the left\nbank of the river Aveyron; Sir Nigel riding behind his Company, with\nAlleyne at his right hand, and Johnston, the old master bowman, walking\nby his left stirrup. Ere they had reached their journey's end the knight\nhad learned all that he would know of his men, their doings and their\nintentions. Once, as they marched, they saw upon the further bank of the\nriver a body of French men-at-arms, riding very swiftly in the direction\nof Villefranche.\n\n\"It is the Seneschal of Toulouse, with his following,\" said Johnston,\nshading his eyes with his hand. \"Had he been on this side of the water\nhe might have attempted something upon us.\"\n\n\"I think that it would be well that we should cross,\" said Sir Nigel.\n\"It were pity to balk this worthy seneschal, should he desire to try\nsome small feat of arms.\"\n\n\"Nay, there is no ford nearer than Tourville,\" answered the old archer.\n\"He is on his way to Villefranche, and short will be the shrift of any\nJacks who come into his hands, for he is a man of short speech. It\nwas he and the Seneschal of Beaucaire who hung Peter Wilkins, of the\nCompany, last Lammastide; for which, by the black rood of Waltham! they\nshall hang themselves, if ever they come into our power. But here are\nour comrades, Sir Nigel, and here is our camp.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the forest pathway along which they marched opened out into\na green glade, which sloped down towards the river. High, leafless trees\ngirt it in on three sides, with a thick undergrowth of holly between\ntheir trunks. At the farther end of this forest clearing there stood\nforty or fifty huts, built very neatly from wood and clay, with the\nblue smoke curling out from the roofs. A dozen tethered horses and mules\ngrazed around the encampment, while a number of archers lounged about:\nsome shooting at marks, while others built up great wooden fires in the\nopen, and hung their cooking kettles above them. At the sight of their\nreturning comrades there was a shout of welcome, and a horseman, who\nhad been exercising his charger behind the camp, came cantering down\nto them. He was a dapper, brisk man, very richly clad, with a round,\nclean-shaven face, and very bright black eyes, which danced and sparkled\nwith excitement.\n\n\"Sir Nigel!\" he cried. \"Sir Nigel Loring, at last! By my soul we have\nawaited you this month past. Right welcome, Sir Nigel! You have had my\nletter?\"\n\n\"It was that which brought me here,\" said Sir Nigel. \"But indeed, Sir\nClaude Latour, it is a great wonder to me that you did not yourself lead\nthese bowmen, for surely they could have found no better leader?\"\n\n\"None, none, by the Virgin of L'Esparre!\" he cried, speaking in the\nstrange, thick Gascon speech which turns every _v_ into a _b_. \"But you\nknow what these islanders of yours are, Sir Nigel. They will not be led\nby any save their own blood and race. There is no persuading them.\nNot even I, Claude Latour Seigneur of Montchateau, master of the high\njustice, the middle and the low, could gain their favor. They must needs\nhold a council and put their two hundred thick heads together, and then\nthere comes this fellow Aylward and another, as their spokesmen, to say\nthat they will disband unless an Englishman of good name be set over\nthem. There are many of them, as I understand, who come from some great\nforest which lies in Hampi, or Hampti--I cannot lay my tongue to the\nname. Your dwelling is in those parts, and so their thoughts turned to\nyou as their leader. But we had hoped that you would bring a hundred men\nwith you.\"\n\n\"They are already at Dax, where we shall join them,\" said Sir Nigel.\n\"But let the men break their fast, and we shall then take counsel what\nto do.\"\n\n\"Come into my hut,\" said Sir Claude. \"It is but poor fare that I can lay\nbefore you--milk, cheese, wine, and bacon--yet your squire and yourself\nwill doubtless excuse it. This is my house where the pennon flies before\nthe door--a small residence to contain the Lord of Montchateau.\"\n\nSir Nigel sat silent and distrait at his meal, while Alleyne hearkened\nto the clattering tongue of the Gascon, and to his talk of the glories\nof his own estate, his successes in love, and his triumphs in war.\n\n\"And now that you are here, Sir Nigel,\" he said at last, \"I have many\nfine ventures all ready for us. I have heard that Montpezat is of no\ngreat strength, and that there are two hundred thousand crowns in the\ncastle. At Castelnau also there is a cobbler who is in my pay, and who\nwill throw us a rope any dark night from his house by the town wall. I\npromise you that you shall thrust your arms elbow-deep among good silver\npieces ere the nights are moonless again; for on every hand of us are\nfair women, rich wine, and good plunder, as much as heart could wish.\"\n\n\"I have other plans,\" answered Sir Nigel curtly; \"for I have come hither\nto lead these bowmen to the help of the prince, our master, who may have\nsore need of them ere he set Pedro upon the throne of Spain. It is my\npurpose to start this very day for Dax upon the Adour, where he hath now\npitched his camp.\"\n\nThe face of the Gascon darkened, and his eyes flashed with resentment.\n\"For me,\" he said, \"I care little for this war, and I find the life\nwhich I lead a very joyous and pleasant one. I will not go to Dax.\"\n\n\"Nay, think again, Sir Claude,\" said Sir Nigel gently; \"for you have\never had the name of a true and loyal knight. Surely you will not hold\nback now when your master hath need of you.\"\n\n\"I will not go to Dax,\" the other shouted.\n\n\"But your devoir--your oath of fealty?\"\n\n\"I say that I will not go.\"\n\n\"Then, Sir Claude, I must lead the Company without you.\"\n\n\"If they will follow,\" cried the Gascon with a sneer. \"These are not\nhired slaves, but free companions, who will do nothing save by their own\ngood wills. In very sooth, my Lord Loring, they are ill men to trifle\nwith, and it were easier to pluck a bone from a hungry bear than to lead\na bowman out of a land of plenty and of pleasure.\"\n\n\"Then I pray you to gather them together,\" said Sir Nigel, \"and I will\ntell them what is in my mind; for if I am their leader they must to Dax,\nand if I am not then I know not what I am doing in Auvergne. Have my\nhorse ready, Alleyne; for, by St. Paul! come what may, I must be upon\nthe homeward road ere mid-day.\"\n\nA blast upon the bugle summoned the bowmen to counsel, and they gathered\nin little knots and groups around a great fallen tree which lay athwart\nthe glade. Sir Nigel sprang lightly upon the trunk, and stood with\nblinking eye and firm lips looking down at the ring of upturned warlike\nfaces.\n\n\"They tell me, bowmen,\" said he, \"that ye have grown so fond of ease and\nplunder and high living that ye are not to be moved from this pleasant\ncountry. But, by Saint Paul! I will believe no such thing of you, for\nI can readily see that you are all very valiant men, who would scorn to\nlive here in peace when your prince hath so great a venture before him.\nYe have chosen me as a leader, and a leader I will be if ye come with\nme to Spain; and I vow to you that my pennon of the five roses shall, if\nGod give me strength and life, be ever where there is most honor to\nbe gained. But if it be your wish to loll and loiter in these glades,\nbartering glory and renown for vile gold and ill-gotten riches, then\nye must find another leader; for I have lived in honor, and in honor I\ntrust that I shall die. If there be forest men or Hampshire men amongst\nye, I call upon them to say whether they will follow the banner of\nLoring.\"\n\n\"Here's a Romsey man for you!\" cried a young bowman with a sprig of\nevergreen set in his helmet.\n\n\"And a lad from Alresford!\" shouted another.\n\n\"And from Milton!\"\n\n\"And from Burley!\"\n\n\"And from Lymington!\"\n\n\"And a little one from Brockenhurst!\" shouted a huge-limbed fellow who\nsprawled beneath a tree.\n\n\"By my hilt! lads,\" cried Aylward, jumping upon the fallen trunk, \"I\nthink that we could not look the girls in the eyes if we let the prince\ncross the mountains and did not pull string to clear a path for him.\nIt is very well in time of peace to lead such a life as we have had\ntogether, but now the war-banner is in the wind once more, and, by these\nten finger-bones! if he go alone, old Samkin Aylward will walk beside\nit.\"\n\nThese words from a man as popular as Aylward decided many of the\nwaverers, and a shout of approval burst from his audience.\n\n\"Far be it from me,\" said Sir Claude Latour suavely, \"to persuade you\nagainst this worthy archer, or against Sir Nigel Loring; yet we have\nbeen together in many ventures, and perchance it may not be amiss if I\nsay to you what I think upon the matter.\"\n\n\"Peace for the little Gascon!\" cried the archers. \"Let every man have\nhis word. Shoot straight for the mark, lad, and fair play for all.\"\n\n\"Bethink you, then,\" said Sir Claude, \"that you go under a hard rule,\nwith neither freedom nor pleasure--and for what? For sixpence a day,\nat the most; while now you may walk across the country and stretch out\neither hand to gather in whatever you have a mind for. What do we not\nhear of our comrades who have gone with Sir John Hawkwood to Italy? In\none night they have held to ransom six hundred of the richest noblemen\nof Mantua. They camp before a great city, and the base burghers come\nforth with the keys, and then they make great spoil; or, if it please\nthem better, they take so many horse-loads of silver as a composition;\nand so they journey on from state to state, rich and free and feared by\nall. Now, is not that the proper life for a soldier?\"\n\n\"The proper life for a robber!\" roared Hordle John, in his thundering\nvoice.\n\n\"And yet there is much in what the Gascon says,\" said a swarthy fellow\nin a weather-stained doublet; \"and I for one would rather prosper in\nItaly than starve in Spain.\"\n\n\"You were always a cur and a traitor, Mark Shaw,\" cried Aylward. \"By\nmy hilt! if you will stand forth and draw your sword I will warrant you\nthat you will see neither one nor the other.\"\n\n\"Nay, Aylward,\" said Sir Nigel, \"we cannot mend the matter by broiling.\nSir Claude, I think that what you have said does you little honor, and\nif my words aggrieve you I am ever ready to go deeper into the matter\nwith you. But you shall have such men as will follow you, and you may\ngo where you will, so that you come not with us. Let all who love\ntheir prince and country stand fast, while those who think more of a\nwell-lined purse step forth upon the farther side.\"\n\nThirteen bowmen, with hung heads and sheepish faces, stepped forward\nwith Mark Shaw and ranged themselves behind Sir Claude. Amid the\nhootings and hissings of their comrades, they marched off together to\nthe Gascon's hut, while the main body broke up their meeting and set\ncheerily to work packing their possessions, furbishing their weapons,\nand preparing for the march which lay before them. Over the Tarn and the\nGaronne, through the vast quagmires of Armagnac, past the swift-flowing\nLosse, and so down the long valley of the Adour, there was many a\nlong league to be crossed ere they could join themselves to that dark\nwar-cloud which was drifting slowly southwards to the line of the snowy\npeaks, beyond which the banner of England had never yet been seen.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII. HOW THE ARMY MADE THE PASSAGE OF RONCESVALLES.\n\n\nThe whole vast plain of Gascony and of Languedoc is an arid and\nprofitless expanse in winter save where the swift-flowing Adour and her\nsnow-fed tributaries, the Louts, the Oloron and the Pau, run down to\nthe sea of Biscay. South of the Adour the jagged line of mountains which\nfringe the sky-line send out long granite claws, running down into the\nlowlands and dividing them into \"gaves\" or stretches of valley. Hillocks\ngrow into hills, and hills into mountains, each range overlying its\nneighbor, until they soar up in the giant chain which raises its\nspotless and untrodden peaks, white and dazzling, against the pale blue\nwintry sky.\n\nA quiet land is this--a land where the slow-moving Basque, with his flat\nbiretta-cap, his red sash and his hempen sandals, tills his scanty farm\nor drives his lean flock to their hill-side pastures. It is the country\nof the wolf and the isard, of the brown bear and the mountain-goat, a\nland of bare rock and of rushing water. Yet here it was that the will of\na great prince had now assembled a gallant army; so that from the Adour\nto the passes of Navarre the barren valleys and wind-swept wastes were\npopulous with soldiers and loud with the shouting of orders and the\nneighing of horses. For the banners of war had been flung to the wind\nonce more, and over those glistening peaks was the highway along which\nHonor pointed in an age when men had chosen her as their guide.\n\nAnd now all was ready for the enterprise. From Dax to St. Jean\nPied-du-Port the country was mottled with the white tents of Gascons,\nAquitanians and English, all eager for the advance. From all sides the\nfree companions had trooped in, until not less than twelve thousand of\nthese veteran troops were cantoned along the frontiers of Navarre. From\nEngland had arrived the prince's brother, the Duke of Lancaster, with\nfour hundred knights in his train and a strong company of archers. Above\nall, an heir to the throne had been born in Bordeaux, and the prince\nmight leave his spouse with an easy mind, for all was well with mother\nand with child.\n\nThe keys of the mountain passes still lay in the hands of the shifty and\nignoble Charles of Navarre, who had chaffered and bargained both with\nthe English and with the Spanish, taking money from the one side to hold\nthem open and from the other to keep them sealed. The mallet hand of\nEdward, however, had shattered all the schemes and wiles of the plotter.\nNeither entreaty nor courtly remonstrance came from the English prince;\nbut Sir Hugh Calverley passed silently over the border with his company,\nand the blazing walls of the two cities of Miranda and Puenta de la\nReyna warned the unfaithful monarch that there were other metals besides\ngold, and that he was dealing with a man to whom it was unsafe to lie.\nHis price was paid, his objections silenced, and the mountain gorges lay\nopen to the invaders. From the Feast of the Epiphany there was mustering\nand massing, until, in the first week of February--three days after the\nWhite Company joined the army--the word was given for a general advance\nthrough the defile of Roncesvalles. At five in the cold winter's morning\nthe bugles were blowing in the hamlet of St. Jean Pied-du-Port, and by\nsix Sir Nigel's Company, three hundred strong, were on their way for the\ndefile, pushing swiftly in the dim light up the steep curving road; for\nit was the prince's order that they should be the first to pass through,\nand that they should remain on guard at the further end until the whole\narmy had emerged from the mountains. Day was already breaking in the\neast, and the summits of the great peaks had turned rosy red, while the\nvalleys still lay in the shadow, when they found themselves with the\ncliffs on either hand and the long, rugged pass stretching away before\nthem.\n\nSir Nigel rode his great black war-horse at the head of his archers,\ndressed in full armor, with Black Simon bearing his banner behind him,\nwhile Alleyne at his bridle-arm carried his blazoned shield and his\nwell-steeled ashen spear. A proud and happy man was the knight, and many\na time he turned in his saddle to look at the long column of bowmen who\nswung swiftly along behind him.\n\n\"By Saint Paul! Alleyne,\" said he, \"this pass is a very perilous place,\nand I would that the King of Navarre had held it against us, for it\nwould have been a very honorable venture had it fallen to us to win a\npassage. I have heard the minstrels sing of one Sir Roland who was slain\nby the infidels in these very parts.\"\n\n\"If it please you, my fair lord,\" said Black Simon, \"I know something\nof these parts, for I have twice served a term with the King of Navarre.\nThere is a hospice of monks yonder, where you may see the roof among the\ntrees, and there it was that Sir Roland was slain. The village upon the\nleft is Orbaiceta, and I know a house therein where the right wine of\nJurancon is to be bought, if it would please you to quaff a morning\ncup.\"\n\n\"There is smoke yonder upon the right.\"\n\n\"That is a village named Les Aldudes, and I know a hostel there also\nwhere the wine is of the best. It is said that the inn-keeper hath a\nburied treasure, and I doubt not, my fair lord, that if you grant me\nleave I could prevail upon him to tell us where he hath hid it.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Simon,\" said Sir Nigel curtly, \"I pray you to forget these\nfree companion tricks. Ha! Edricson, I see that you stare about you, and\nin good sooth these mountains must seem wondrous indeed to one who hath\nbut seen Butser or the Portsdown hill.\"\n\nThe broken and rugged road had wound along the crests of low hills,\nwith wooded ridges on either side of it over which peeped the loftier\nmountains, the distant Peak of the South and the vast Altabisca, which\ntowered high above them and cast its black shadow from left to right\nacross the valley. From where they now stood they could look forward\ndown a long vista of beech woods and jagged rock-strewn wilderness, all\nwhite with snow, to where the pass opened out upon the uplands beyond.\nBehind them they could still catch a glimpse of the gray plains of\nGascony, and could see her rivers gleaming like coils of silver in the\nsunshine. As far as eye could see from among the rocky gorges and the\nbristles of the pine woods there came the quick twinkle and glitter of\nsteel, while the wind brought with it sudden distant bursts of martial\nmusic from the great host which rolled by every road and by-path towards\nthe narrow pass of Roncesvalles. On the cliffs on either side might also\nbe seen the flash of arms and the waving of pennons where the force of\nNavarre looked down upon the army of strangers who passed through their\nterritories.\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" said Sir Nigel, blinking up at them, \"I think that\nwe have much to hope for from these cavaliers, for they cluster very\nthickly upon our flanks. Pass word to the men, Aylward, that they\nunsling their bows, for I have no doubt that there are some very\nworthy gentlemen yonder who may give us some opportunity for honorable\nadvancement.\"\n\n\"I hear that the prince hath the King of Navarre as hostage,\" said\nAlleyne, \"and it is said that he hath sworn to put him to death if there\nbe any attack upon us.\"\n\n\"It was not so that war was made when good King Edward first turned his\nhand to it,\" said Sir Nigel sadly. \"Ah! Alleyne, I fear that you will\nnever live to see such things, for the minds of men are more set upon\nmoney and gain than of old. By Saint Paul! it was a noble sight when two\ngreat armies would draw together upon a certain day, and all who had\na vow would ride forth to discharge themselves of it. What noble\nspear-runnings have I not seen, and even in an humble way had a part in,\nwhen cavaliers would run a course for the easing of their souls and for\nthe love of their ladies! Never a bad word have I for the French, for,\nthough I have ridden twenty times up to their array, I have never yet\nfailed to find some very gentle and worthy knight or squire who was\nwilling to do what he might to enable me to attempt some small feat of\narms. Then, when all cavaliers had been satisfied, the two armies would\ncome to hand-strokes, and fight right merrily until one or other had the\nvantage. By Saint Paul! it was not our wont in those days to pay gold\nfor the opening of passes, nor would we hold a king as hostage lest\nhis people come to thrusts with us. In good sooth, if the war is to be\ncarried out in such a fashion, then it is grief to me that I ever came\naway from Castle Twynham, for I would not have left my sweet lady had I\nnot thought that there were deeds of arms to be done.\"\n\n\"But surely, my fair lord,\" said Alleyne, \"you have done some great\nfeats of arms since we left the Lady Loring.\"\n\n\"I cannot call any to mind,\" answered Sir Nigel.\n\n\"There was the taking of the sea-rovers, and the holding of the keep\nagainst the Jacks.\"\n\n\"Nay, nay,\" said the knight, \"these were not feats of arms, but mere\nwayside ventures and the chances of travel. By Saint Paul! if it were\nnot that these hills are over-steep for Pommers, I would ride to these\ncavaliers of Navarre and see if there were not some among them who would\nhelp me to take this patch from mine eye. It is a sad sight to see this\nvery fine pass, which my own Company here could hold against an army,\nand yet to ride through it with as little profit as though it were the\nlane from my kennels to the Avon.\"\n\nAll morning Sir Nigel rode in a very ill-humor, with his Company\ntramping behind him. It was a toilsome march over broken ground and\nthrough snow, which came often as high as the knee, yet ere the sun had\nbegun to sink they had reached the spot where the gorge opens out on to\nthe uplands of Navarre, and could see the towers of Pampeluna jutting\nup against the southern sky-line. Here the Company were quartered in a\nscattered mountain hamlet, and Alleyne spent the day looking down\nupon the swarming army which poured with gleam of spears and flaunt of\nstandards through the narrow pass.\n\n\"Hola, mon gar.,\" said Aylward, seating himself upon a boulder by his\nside. \"This is indeed a fine sight upon which it is good to look, and a\nman might go far ere he would see so many brave men and fine horses.\nBy my hilt! our little lord is wroth because we have come peacefully\nthrough the passes, but I will warrant him that we have fighting\nenow ere we turn our faces northward again. It is said that there are\nfour-score thousand men behind the King of Spain, with Du Guesclin and\nall the best lances of France, who have sworn to shed their heart's\nblood ere this Pedro come again to the throne.\"\n\n\"Yet our own army is a great one,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"Nay, there are but seven-and-twenty thousand men. Chandos hath\npersuaded the prince to leave many behind, and indeed I think that he is\nright, for there is little food and less water in these parts for which\nwe are bound. A man without his meat or a horse without his fodder is\nlike a wet bow-string, fit for little. But voila, mon petit, here comes\nChandos and his company, and there is many a pensil and banderole among\nyonder squadrons which show that the best blood of England is riding\nunder his banners.\"\n\nWhilst Aylward had been speaking, a strong column of archers had defiled\nthrough the pass beneath them. They were followed by a banner-bearer\nwho held high the scarlet wedge upon a silver field which proclaimed the\npresence of the famous warrior. He rode himself within a spear's-length\nof his standard, clad from neck to foot in steel, but draped in the long\nlinen gown or parement which was destined to be the cause of his death.\nHis plumed helmet was carried behind him by his body-squire, and his\nhead was covered by a small purple cap, from under which his snow-white\nhair curled downwards to his shoulders. With his long beak-like nose and\nhis single gleaming eye, which shone brightly from under a thick tuft\nof grizzled brow, he seemed to Alleyne to have something of the look\nof some fierce old bird of prey. For a moment he smiled, as his eye lit\nupon the banner of the five roses waving from the hamlet; but his course\nlay for Pampeluna, and he rode on after the archers.\n\nClose at his heels came sixteen squires, all chosen from the highest\nfamilies, and behind them rode twelve hundred English knights, with\ngleam of steel and tossing of plumes, their harness jingling, their long\nstraight swords clanking against their stirrup-irons, and the beat of\ntheir chargers' hoofs like the low deep roar of the sea upon the shore.\nBehind them marched six hundred Cheshire and Lancashire archers, bearing\nthe badge of the Audleys, followed by the famous Lord Audley himself,\nwith the four valiant squires, Dutton of Dutton, Delves of Doddington,\nFowlehurst of Crewe, and Hawkestone of Wainehill, who had all won such\nglory at Poictiers. Two hundred heavily-armed cavalry rode behind the\nAudley standard, while close at their heels came the Duke of Lancaster\nwith a glittering train, heralds tabarded with the royal arms riding\nthree deep upon cream-colored chargers in front of him. On either side\nof the young prince rode the two seneschals of Aquitaine, Sir Guiscard\nd'Angle and Sir Stephen Cossington, the one bearing the banner of the\nprovince and the other that of Saint George. Away behind him as far as\neye could reach rolled the far-stretching, unbroken river of steel--rank\nafter rank and column after column, with waving of plumes, glitter of\narms, tossing of guidons, and flash and flutter of countless armorial\ndevices. All day Alleyne looked down upon the changing scene, and all\nday the old bowman stood by his elbow, pointing out the crests of famous\nwarriors and the arms of noble houses. Here were the gold mullets of the\nPakingtons, the sable and ermine of the Mackworths, the scarlet bars of\nthe Wakes, the gold and blue of the Grosvenors, the cinque-foils of\nthe Cliftons, the annulets of the Musgraves, the silver pinions of the\nBeauchamps, the crosses of the Molineaux, the bloody chevron of the\nWoodhouses, the red and silver of the Worsleys, the swords of the\nClarks, the boars'-heads of the Lucies, the crescents of the Boyntons,\nand the wolf and dagger of the Lipscombs. So through the sunny winter\nday the chivalry of England poured down through the dark pass of\nRoncesvalles to the plains of Spain.\n\nIt was on a Monday that the Duke of Lancaster's division passed safely\nthrough the Pyrenees. On the Tuesday there was a bitter frost, and the\nground rung like iron beneath the feet of the horses; yet ere evening\nthe prince himself, with the main battle of his army, had passed the\ngorge and united with his vanguard at Pampeluna. With him rode the King\nof Majorca, the hostage King of Navarre, and the fierce Don Pedro of\nSpain, whose pale blue eyes gleamed with a sinister light as they rested\nonce more upon the distant peaks of the land which had disowned him.\nUnder the royal banners rode many a bold Gascon baron and many a\nhot-blooded islander. Here were the high stewards of Aquitaine, of\nSaintonge, of La Rochelle, of Quercy, of Limousin, of Agenois, of\nPoitou, and of Bigorre, with the banners and musters of their provinces.\nHere also were the valiant Earl of Angus, Sir Thomas Banaster with his\ngarter over his greave, Sir Nele Loring, second cousin to Sir Nigel,\nand a long column of Welsh footmen who marched under the red banner\nof Merlin. From dawn to sundown the long train wound through the pass,\ntheir breath reeking up upon the frosty air like the steam from a\ncauldron.\n\nThe weather was less keen upon the Wednesday, and the rear-guard\nmade good their passage, with the bombards and the wagon-train. Free\ncompanions and Gascons made up this portion of the army to the number of\nten thousand men. The fierce Sir Hugh Calverley, with his yellow mane,\nand the rugged Sir Robert Knolles, with their war-hardened and veteran\ncompanies of English bowmen, headed the long column; while behind them\ncame the turbulent bands of the Bastard of Breteuil, Nandon de Bagerant,\none-eyed Camus, Black Ortingo, La Nuit and others whose very names seem\nto smack of hard hands and ruthless deeds. With them also were the\npick of the Gascon chivalry--the old Duc d'Armagnac, his nephew Lord\nd'Albret, brooding and scowling over his wrongs, the giant Oliver de\nClisson, the Captal de Buch, pink of knighthood, the sprightly Sir\nPerducas d'Albret, the red-bearded Lord d'Esparre, and a long train of\nneedy and grasping border nobles, with long pedigrees and short purses,\nwho had come down from their hill-side strongholds, all hungering for\nthe spoils and the ransoms of Spain. By the Thursday morning the whole\narmy was encamped in the Vale of Pampeluna, and the prince had called\nhis council to meet him in the old palace of the ancient city of\nNavarre.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV. HOW THE COMPANY MADE SPORT IN THE VALE OF PAMPELUNA.\n\n\nWhilst the council was sitting in Pampeluna the White Company, having\nencamped in a neighboring valley, close to the companies of La Nuit and\nof Black Ortingo, were amusing themselves with sword-play, wrestling,\nand shooting at the shields, which they had placed upon the hillside\nto serve them as butts. The younger archers, with their coats of mail\nthrown aside, their brown or flaxen hair tossing in the wind, and their\njerkins turned back to give free play to their brawny chests and arms,\nstood in lines, each loosing his shaft in turn, while Johnston, Aylward,\nBlack Simon, and half-a-score of the elders lounged up and down with\ncritical eyes, and a word of rough praise or of curt censure for the\nmarksmen. Behind stood knots of Gascon and Brabant crossbowmen from\nthe companies of Ortingo and of La Nuit, leaning upon their unsightly\nweapons and watching the practice of the Englishmen.\n\n\"A good shot, Hewett, a good shot!\" said old Johnston to a young bowman,\nwho stood with his bow in his left hand, gazing with parted lips after\nhis flying shaft. \"You see, she finds the ring, as I knew she would from\nthe moment that your string twanged.\"\n\n\"Loose it easy, steady, and yet sharp,\" said Aylward. \"By my hilt! mon\ngar., it is very well when you do but shoot at a shield, but when there\nis a man behind the shield, and he rides at you with wave of sword and\nglint of eyes from behind his vizor, you may find him a less easy mark.\"\n\n\"It is a mark that I have found before now,\" answered the young bowman.\n\n\"And shall again, camarade, I doubt not. But hola! Johnston, who is this\nwho holds his bow like a crow-keeper?\"\n\n\"It is Silas Peterson, of Horsham. Do not wink with one eye and look\nwith the other, Silas, and do not hop and dance after you shoot, with\nyour tongue out, for that will not speed it upon its way. Stand straight\nand firm, as God made you. Move not the bow arm, and steady with the\ndrawing hand!\"\n\n\"I' faith,\" said Black Simon, \"I am a spearman myself, and am more\nfitted for hand-strokes than for such work as this. Yet I have spent my\ndays among bowmen, and I have seen many a brave shaft sped. I will not\nsay but that we have some good marksmen here, and that this Company\nwould be accounted a fine body of archers at any time or place. Yet I\ndo not see any men who bend so strong a bow or shoot as true a shaft as\nthose whom I have known.\"\n\n\"You say sooth,\" said Johnston, turning his seamed and grizzled face\nupon the man-at-arms. \"See yonder,\" he added, pointing to a bombard\nwhich lay within the camp: \"there is what hath done scath to good\nbowmanship, with its filthy soot and foolish roaring mouth. I wonder\nthat a true knight, like our prince, should carry such a scurvy thing in\nhis train. Robin, thou red-headed lurden, how oft must I tell thee not\nto shoot straight with a quarter-wind blowing across the mark?\"\n\n\"By these ten finger-bones! there were some fine bowmen at the intaking\nof Calais,\" said Aylward. \"I well remember that, on occasion of an\noutfall, a Genoan raised his arm over his mantlet, and shook it at us, a\nhundred paces from our line. There were twenty who loosed shafts at him,\nand when the man was afterwards slain it was found that he had taken\neighteen through his forearm.\"\n\n\"And I can call to mind,\" remarked Johnston, \"that when the great\ncog 'Christopher,' which the French had taken from us, was moored two\nhundred paces from the shore, two archers, little Robin Withstaff and\nElias Baddlesmere, in four shots each cut every strand of her hempen\nanchor-cord, so that she well-nigh came upon the rocks.\"\n\n\"Good shooting, i' faith rare shooting!\" said Black Simon. \"But I have\nseen you, Johnston, and you, Samkin Aylward, and one or two others who\nare still with us, shoot as well as the best. Was it not you, Johnston,\nwho took the fat ox at Finsbury butts against the pick of London town?\"\n\nA sunburnt and black-eyed Brabanter had stood near the old archers,\nleaning upon a large crossbow and listening to their talk, which had\nbeen carried on in that hybrid camp dialect which both nations could\nunderstand. He was a squat, bull-necked man, clad in the iron helmet,\nmail tunic, and woollen gambesson of his class. A jacket with hanging\nsleeves, slashed with velvet at the neck and wrists, showed that he was\na man of some consideration, an under-officer, or file-leader of his\ncompany.\n\n\"I cannot think,\" said he, \"why you English should be so fond of your\nsix-foot stick. If it amuse you to bend it, well and good; but why\nshould I strain and pull, when my little moulinet will do all for me,\nand better than I can do it for myself?\"\n\n\"I have seen good shooting with the prod and with the latch,\" said\nAylward, \"but, by my hilt! camarade, with all respect to you and to your\nbow, I think that is but a woman's weapon, which a woman can point and\nloose as easily as a man.\"\n\n\"I know not about that,\" answered the Brabanter, \"but this I know,\nthat though I have served for fourteen years, I have never yet seen an\nEnglishman do aught with the long-bow which I could not do better with\nmy arbalest. By the three kings! I would even go further, and say that I\nhave done things with my arbalest which no Englishman could do with his\nlong-bow.\"\n\n\"Well said, mon gar.,\" cried Aylward. \"A good cock has ever a brave\ncall. Now, I have shot little of late, but there is Johnston here who\nwill try a round with you for the honor of the Company.\"\n\n\"And I will lay a gallon of Jurancon wine upon the long-bow,\" said Black\nSimon, \"though I had rather, for my own drinking, that it were a quart\nof Twynham ale.\"\n\n\"I take both your challenge and your wager,\" said the man of Brabant,\nthrowing off his jacket and glancing keenly about him with his black,\ntwinkling eyes. \"I cannot see any fitting mark, for I care not to waste\na bolt upon these shields, which a drunken boor could not miss at a\nvillage kermesse.\"\n\n\"This is a perilous man,\" whispered an English man-at-arms, plucking at\nAylward's sleeve. \"He is the best marksman of all the crossbow companies\nand it was he who brought down the Constable de Bourbon at Brignais. I\nfear that your man will come by little honor with him.\"\n\n\"Yet I have seen Johnston shoot these twenty years, and I will not\nflinch from it. How say you, old war-hound, will you not have a flight\nshot or two with this springald?\"\n\n\"Tut, tut, Aylward,\" said the old bowman. \"My day is past, and it is\nfor the younger ones to hold what we have gained. I take it unkindly of\nthee, Samkin, that thou shouldst call all eyes thus upon a broken bowman\nwho could once shoot a fair shaft. Let me feel that bow, Wilkins! It is\na Scotch bow, I see, for the upper nock is without and the lower within.\nBy the black rood! it is a good piece of yew, well nocked, well strung,\nwell waxed, and very joyful to the feel. I think even now that I might\nhit any large and goodly mark with a bow like this. Turn thy quiver to\nme, Aylward. I love an ash arrow pierced with cornel-wood for a roving\nshaft.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! and so do I,\" cried Aylward. \"These three gander-winged\nshafts are such.\"\n\n\"So I see, comrade. It has been my wont to choose a saddle-backed\nfeather for a dead shaft, and a swine-backed for a smooth flier. I will\ntake the two of them. Ah! Samkin, lad, the eye grows dim and the hand\nless firm as the years pass.\"\n\n\"Come then, are you not ready?\" said the Brabanter, who had watched\nwith ill-concealed impatience the slow and methodic movements of his\nantagonist.\n\n\"I will venture a rover with you, or try long-butts or hoyles,\" said old\nJohnston. \"To my mind the long-bow is a better weapon than the arbalest,\nbut it may be ill for me to prove it.\"\n\n\"So I think,\" quoth the other with a sneer. He drew his moulinet from\nhis girdle, and fixing it to the windlass, he drew back the powerful\ndouble cord until it had clicked into the catch. Then from his quiver he\ndrew a short, thick quarrel, which he placed with the utmost care upon\nthe groove. Word had spread of what was going forward, and the rivals\nwere already surrounded, not only by the English archers of the Company,\nbut by hundreds of arbalestiers and men-at-arms from the bands of\nOrtingo and La Nuit, to the latter of which the Brabanter belonged.\n\n\"There is a mark yonder on the hill,\" said he; \"mayhap you can discern\nit.\"\n\n\"I see something,\" answered Johnston, shading his eyes with his hand;\n\"but it is a very long shoot.\"\n\n\"A fair shoot--a fair shoot! Stand aside, Arnaud, lest you find a bolt\nthrough your gizzard. Now, comrade, I take no flight shot, and I give\nyou the vantage of watching my shaft.\"\n\nAs he spoke he raised his arbalest to his shoulder and was about to pull\nthe trigger, when a large gray stork flapped heavily into view skimming\nover the brow of the hill, and then soaring up into the air to pass the\nvalley. Its shrill and piercing cries drew all eyes upon it, and, as it\ncame nearer, a dark spot which circled above it resolved itself into a\nperegrine falcon, which hovered over its head, poising itself from time\nto time, and watching its chance of closing with its clumsy quarry.\nNearer and nearer came the two birds, all absorbed in their own contest,\nthe stork wheeling upwards, the hawk still fluttering above it, until\nthey were not a hundred paces from the camp. The Brabanter raised his\nweapon to the sky, and there came the short, deep twang of his powerful\nstring. His bolt struck the stork just where its wing meets the body,\nand the bird whirled aloft in a last convulsive flutter before falling\nwounded and flapping to the earth. A roar of applause burst from the\ncrossbowmen; but at the instant that the bolt struck its mark old\nJohnston, who had stood listlessly with arrow on string, bent his bow\nand sped a shaft through the body of the falcon. Whipping the other from\nhis belt, he sent it skimming some few feet from the earth with so true\nan aim that it struck and transfixed the stork for the second time ere\nit could reach the ground. A deep-chested shout of delight burst from\nthe archers at the sight of this double feat, and Aylward, dancing with\njoy, threw his arms round the old marksman and embraced him with such\nvigor that their mail tunics clanged again.\n\n\"Ah! camarade,\" he cried, \"you shall have a stoup with me for this! What\nthen, old dog, would not the hawk please thee, but thou must have the\nstork as well. Oh, to my heart again!\"\n\n\"It is a pretty piece of yew, and well strung,\" said Johnston with a\ntwinkle in his deep-set gray eyes. \"Even an old broken bowman might find\nthe clout with a bow like this.\"\n\n\"You have done very well,\" remarked the Brabanter in a surly voice.\n\"But it seems to me that you have not yet shown yourself to be a better\nmarksman than I, for I have struck that at which I aimed, and, by the\nthree kings! no man can do more.\"\n\n\"It would ill beseem me to claim to be a better marksman,\" answered\nJohnston, \"for I have heard great things of your skill. I did but wish\nto show that the long-bow could do that which an arbalest could not do,\nfor you could not with your moulinet have your string ready to speed\nanother shaft ere the bird drop to the earth.\"\n\n\"In that you have vantage,\" said the crossbowman. \"By Saint James! it\nis now my turn to show you where my weapon has the better of you. I pray\nyou to draw a flight shaft with all your strength down the valley, that\nwe may see the length of your shoot.\"\n\n\"That is a very strong prod of yours,\" said Johnston, shaking his\ngrizzled head as he glanced at the thick arch and powerful strings of\nhis rival's arbalest. \"I have little doubt that you can overshoot me,\nand yet I have seen bowmen who could send a cloth-yard arrow further\nthan you could speed a quarrel.\"\n\n\"So I have heard,\" remarked the Brabanter; \"and yet it is a strange\nthing that these wondrous bowmen are never where I chance to be. Pace\nout the distances with a wand at every five score, and do you, Arnaud,\nstand at the fifth wand to carry back my bolts to me.\"\n\nA line was measured down the valley, and Johnston, drawing an arrow to\nthe very head, sent it whistling over the row of wands.\n\n\"Bravely drawn! A rare shoot!\" shouted the bystanders.\n\n\"It is well up to the fourth mark.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! it is over it,\" cried Aylward. \"I can see where they have\nstooped to gather up the shaft.\"\n\n\"We shall hear anon,\" said Johnston quietly, and presently a young\narcher came running to say that the arrow had fallen twenty paces beyond\nthe fourth wand.\n\n\"Four hundred paces and a score,\" cried Black Simon. \"I' faith, it is a\nvery long flight. Yet wood and steel may do more than flesh and blood.\"\n\nThe Brabanter stepped forward with a smile of conscious triumph, and\nloosed the cord of his weapon. A shout burst from his comrades as they\nwatched the swift and lofty flight of the heavy bolt.\n\n\"Over the fourth!\" groaned Aylward. \"By my hilt! I think that it is well\nup to the fifth.\"\n\n\"It is over the fifth!\" cried a Gascon loudly, and a comrade came\nrunning with waving arms to say that the bolt had pitched eight paces\nbeyond the mark of the five hundred.\n\n\"Which weapon hath the vantage now?\" cried the Brabanter, strutting\nproudly about with shouldered arbalest, amid the applause of his\ncompanions.\n\n\"You can overshoot me,\" said Johnston gently.\n\n\"Or any other man who ever bent a long-bow,\" cried his victorious\nadversary.\n\n\"Nay, not so fast,\" said a huge archer, whose mighty shoulders and red\nhead towered high above the throng of his comrades. \"I must have a word\nwith you ere you crow so loudly. Where is my little popper? By sainted\nDick of Hampole! it will be a strange thing if I cannot outshoot that\nthing of thine, which to my eyes is more like a rat-trap than a bow.\nWill you try another flight, or do you stand by your last?\"\n\n\"Five hundred and eight paces will serve my turn,\" answered the\nBrabanter, looking askance at this new opponent.\n\n\"Tut, John,\" whispered Aylward, \"you never were a marksman. Why must you\nthrust your spoon into this dish?\"\n\n\"Easy and slow, Aylward. There are very many things which I cannot do,\nbut there are also one or two which I have the trick of. It is in my\nmind that I can beat this shoot, if my bow will but hold together.\"\n\n\"Go on, old babe of the woods!\" \"Have at it, Hampshire!\" cried the\narchers laughing.\n\n\"By my soul! you may grin,\" cried John. \"But I learned how to make the\nlong shoot from old Hob Miller of Milford.\" He took up a great black\nbow, as he spoke, and sitting down upon the ground he placed his two\nfeet on either end of the stave. With an arrow fitted, he then pulled\nthe string towards him with both hands until the head of the shaft was\nlevel with the wood. The great bow creaked and groaned and the cord\nvibrated with the tension.\n\n\"Who is this fool's-head who stands in the way of my shoot?\" said he,\ncraning up his neck from the ground.\n\n\"He stands on the further side of my mark,\" answered the Brabanter, \"so\nhe has little to fear from you.\"\n\n\"Well, the saints assoil him!\" cried John. \"Though I think he is\nover-near to be scathed.\" As he spoke he raised his two feet, with the\nbow-stave upon their soles, and his cord twanged with a deep rich hum\nwhich might be heard across the valley. The measurer in the distance\nfell flat upon his face, and then jumping up again, he began to run in\nthe opposite direction.\n\n\"Well shot, old lad! It is indeed over his head,\" cried the bowmen.\n\n\"Mon Dieu!\" exclaimed the Brabanter, \"who ever saw such a shoot?\"\n\n\"It is but a trick,\" quoth John. \"Many a time have I won a gallon of ale\nby covering a mile in three flights down Wilverley Chase.\"\n\n\"It fell a hundred and thirty paces beyond the fifth mark,\" shouted an\narcher in the distance.\n\n\"Six hundred and thirty paces! Mon Dieu! but that is a shoot! And yet it\nsays nothing for your weapon, mon gros camarade, for it was by turning\nyourself into a crossbow that you did it.\"\n\n\"By my hilt! there is truth in that,\" cried Aylward. \"And now, friend,\nI will myself show you a vantage of the long-bow. I pray you to speed\na bolt against yonder shield with all your force. It is an inch of elm\nwith bull's hide over it.\"\n\n\"I scarce shot as many shafts at Brignais,\" growled the man of Brabant;\n\"though I found a better mark there than a cantle of bull's hide. But\nwhat is this, Englishman? The shield hangs not one hundred paces from\nme, and a blind man could strike it.\" He screwed up his string to the\nfurthest pitch, and shot his quarrel at the dangling shield. Aylward,\nwho had drawn an arrow from his quiver, carefully greased the head of\nit, and sped it at the same mark.\n\n\"Run, Wilkins,\" quoth he, \"and fetch me the shield.\"\n\nLong were the faces of the Englishmen and broad the laugh of the\ncrossbowmen as the heavy mantlet was carried towards them, for there in\nthe centre was the thick Brabant bolt driven deeply into the wood, while\nthere was neither sign nor trace of the cloth-yard shaft.\n\n\"By the three kings!\" cried the Brabanter, \"this time at least there is\nno gainsaying which is the better weapon, or which the truer hand that\nheld it. You have missed the shield, Englishman.\"\n\n\"Tarry a bit! tarry a bit, mon gar.!\" quoth Aylward, and turning round\nthe shield he showed a round clear hole in the wood at the back of it.\n\"My shaft has passed through it, camarade, and I trow the one which goes\nthrough is more to be feared than that which bides on the way.\"\n\nThe Brabanter stamped his foot with mortification, and was about to make\nsome angry reply, when Alleyne Edricson came riding up to the crowds of\narchers.\n\n\"Sir Nigel will be here anon,\" said he, \"and it is his wish to speak\nwith the Company.\"\n\nIn an instant order and method took the place of general confusion.\nBows, steel caps, and jacks were caught up from the grass. A long cordon\ncleared the camp of all strangers, while the main body fell into four\nlines with under-officers and file-leaders in front and on either flank.\nSo they stood, silent and motionless, when their leader came riding\ntowards them, his face shining and his whole small figure swelling with\nthe news which he bore.\n\n\"Great honor has been done to us, men,\" cried he: \"for, of all the army,\nthe prince has chosen us out that we should ride onwards into the lands\nof Spain to spy upon our enemies. Yet, as there are many of us, and as\nthe service may not be to the liking of all, I pray that those will step\nforward from the ranks who have the will to follow me.\"\n\nThere was a rustle among the bowmen, but when Sir Nigel looked up at\nthem no man stood forward from his fellows, but the four lines of men\nstretched unbroken as before. Sir Nigel blinked at them in amazement,\nand a look of the deepest sorrow shadowed his face.\n\n\"That I should live to see the day!\" he cried. \"What! not one----\"\n\n\"My fair lord,\" whispered Alleyne, \"they have all stepped forward.\"\n\n\"Ah, by Saint Paul! I see how it is with them. I could not think that\nthey would desert me. We start at dawn to-morrow, and ye are to have\nthe horses of Sir Robert Cheney's company. Be ready, I pray ye, at early\ncock-crow.\"\n\nA buzz of delight burst from the archers, as they broke their ranks and\nran hither and thither, whooping and cheering like boys who have news of\na holiday. Sir Nigel gazed after them with a smiling face, when a heavy\nhand fell upon his shoulder.\n\n\"What ho! my knight-errant of Twynham!\" said a voice, \"You are off to\nEbro, I hear; and, by the holy fish of Tobias! you must take me under\nyour banner.\"\n\n\"What! Sir Oliver Buttesthorn!\" cried Sir Nigel. \"I had heard that you\nwere come into camp, and had hoped to see you. Glad and proud shall I be\nto have you with me.\"\n\n\"I have a most particular and weighty reason for wishing to go,\" said\nthe sturdy knight.\n\n\"I can well believe it,\" returned Sir Nigel; \"I have met no man who is\nquicker to follow where honor leads.\"\n\n\"Nay, it is not for honor that I go, Nigel.\"\n\n\"For what then?\"\n\n\"For pullets.\"\n\n\"Pullets?\"\n\n\"Yes, for the rascal vanguard have cleared every hen from the\ncountry-side. It was this very morning that Norbury, my squire,\nlamed his horse in riding round in quest of one, for we have a bag of\ntruffles, and nought to eat with them. Never have I seen such locusts as\nthis vanguard of ours. Not a pullet shall we see until we are in front\nof them; so I shall leave my Winchester runagates to the care of the\nprovost-marshal, and I shall hie south with you, Nigel, with my truffles\nat my saddle-bow.\"\n\n\"Oliver, Oliver, I know you over-well,\" said Sir Nigel, shaking his\nhead, and the two old soldiers rode off together to their pavilion.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV. HOW SIR NIGEL HAWKED AT AN EAGLE.\n\n\nTo the south of Pampeluna in the kingdom of Navarre there stretched\na high table-land, rising into bare, sterile hills, brown or gray in\ncolor, and strewn with huge boulders of granite. On the Gascon side of\nthe great mountains there had been running streams, meadows, forests,\nand little nestling villages. Here, on the contrary, were nothing but\nnaked rocks, poor pasture, and savage, stone-strewn wastes. Gloomy\ndefiles or barrancas intersected this wild country with mountain\ntorrents dashing and foaming between their rugged sides. The clatter\nof waters, the scream of the eagle, and the howling of wolves the only\nsounds which broke upon the silence in that dreary and inhospitable\nregion.\n\nThrough this wild country it was that Sir Nigel and his Company pushed\ntheir way, riding at times through vast defiles where the brown, gnarled\ncliffs shot up on either side of them, and the sky was but a long\nwinding blue slit between the clustering lines of box which fringed the\nlips of the precipices; or, again leading their horses along the narrow\nand rocky paths worn by the muleteers upon the edges of the chasm, where\nunder their very elbows they could see the white streak which marked\nthe _gave_ which foamed a thousand feet below them. So for two days they\npushed their way through the wild places of Navarre, past Fuente,\nover the rapid Ega, through Estella, until upon a winter's evening the\nmountains fell away from in front of them, and they saw the broad blue\nEbro curving betwixt its double line of homesteads and of villages. The\nfishers of Viana were aroused that night by rough voices speaking in a\nstrange tongue, and ere morning Sir Nigel and his men had ferried the\nriver and were safe upon the land of Spain.\n\nAll the next day they lay in a pine wood near to the town of Logrono,\nresting their horses and taking counsel as to what they should do. Sir\nNigel had with him Sir William Felton, Sir Oliver Buttesthorn, stout old\nSir Simon Burley, the Scotch knight-errant, the Earl of Angus, and Sir\nRichard Causton, all accounted among the bravest knights in the army,\ntogether with sixty veteran men-at-arms, and three hundred and twenty\narchers. Spies had been sent out in the morning, and returned after\nnightfall to say that the King of Spain was encamped some fourteen miles\noff in the direction of Burgos, having with him twenty thousand horse\nand forty-five thousand foot.\n\nA dry-wood fire had been lit, and round this the leaders crouched, the\nglare beating upon their rugged faces, while the hardy archers lounged\nand chatted amid the tethered horses, while they munched their scanty\nprovisions.\n\n\"For my part,\" said Sir Simon Burley, \"I am of opinion that we have\nalready done that which we have come for. For do we not now know where\nthe king is, and how great a following he hath, which was the end of our\njourney.\"\n\n\"True,\" answered Sir William Felton, \"but I have come on this venture\nbecause it is a long time since I have broken a spear in war, and,\ncertes, I shall not go back until I have run a course with some cavalier\nof Spain. Let those go back who will, but I must see more of these\nSpaniards ere I turn.\"\n\n\"I will not leave you, Sir William,\" returned Sir Simon Burley; \"and\nyet, as an old soldier and one who hath seen much of war, I cannot but\nthink that it is an ill thing for four hundred men to find themselves\nbetween an army of sixty thousand on the one side and a broad river on\nthe other.\"\n\n\"Yet,\" said Sir Richard Causton, \"we cannot for the honor of England go\nback without a blow struck.\"\n\n\"Nor for the honor of Scotland either,\" cried the Earl of Angus. \"By\nSaint Andrew! I wish that I may never set eyes upon the water of\nLeith again, if I pluck my horse's bridle ere I have seen this camp of\ntheirs.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul! you have spoken very well,\" said Sir Nigel, \"and I have\nalways heard that there were very worthy gentlemen among the Scots, and\nfine skirmishing to be had upon their border. Bethink you, Sir Simon,\nthat we have this news from the lips of common spies, who can scarce\ntell us as much of the enemy and of his forces as the prince would wish\nto hear.\"\n\n\"You are the leader in this venture, Sir Nigel,\" the other answered,\n\"and I do but ride under your banner.\"\n\n\"Yet I would fain have your rede and counsel, Sir Simon. But, touching\nwhat you say of the river, we can take heed that we shall not have it\nat the back of us, for the prince hath now advanced to Salvatierra, and\nthence to Vittoria, so that if we come upon their camp from the further\nside we can make good our retreat.\"\n\n\"What then would you propose?\" asked Sir Simon, shaking his grizzled\nhead as one who is but half convinced.\n\n\"That we ride forward ere the news reach them that we have crossed the\nriver. In this way we may have sight of their army, and perchance even\nfind occasion for some small deed against them.\"\n\n\"So be it, then,\" said Sir Simon Burley; and the rest of the council\nhaving approved, a scanty meal was hurriedly snatched, and the advance\nresumed under the cover of the darkness. All night they led their\nhorses, stumbling and groping through wild defiles and rugged valleys,\nfollowing the guidance of a frightened peasant who was strapped by the\nwrist to Black Simon's stirrup-leather. With the early dawn they found\nthemselves in a black ravine, with others sloping away from it on either\nside, and the bare brown crags rising in long bleak terraces all round\nthem.\n\n\"If it please you, fair lord,\" said Black Simon, \"this man hath misled\nus, and since there is no tree upon which we may hang him, it might be\nwell to hurl him over yonder cliff.\"\n\nThe peasant, reading the soldier's meaning in his fierce eyes and harsh\naccents dropped upon his knees, screaming loudly for mercy.\n\n\"How comes it, dog?\" asked Sir William Felton in Spanish. \"Where is this\ncamp to which you swore that you would lead us?\"\n\n\"By the sweet Virgin! By the blessed Mother of God!\" cried the trembling\npeasant, \"I swear to you that in the darkness I have myself lost the\npath.\"\n\n\"Over the cliff with him!\" shouted half a dozen voices; but ere the\narchers could drag him from the rocks to which he clung Sir Nigel had\nridden up and called upon them to stop.\n\n\"How is this, sirs?\" said he. \"As long as the prince doth me the honor\nto entrust this venture to me, it is for me only to give orders; and,\nby Saint Paul! I shall be right blithe to go very deeply into the\nmatter with any one to whom my words may give offence. How say you, Sir\nWilliam? Or you, my Lord of Angus? Or you, Sir Richard?\"\n\n\"Nay, nay, Nigel!\" cried Sir William. \"This base peasant is too small\na matter for old comrades to quarrel over. But he hath betrayed us, and\ncertes he hath merited a dog's death.\"\n\n\"Hark ye, fellow,\" said Sir Nigel. \"We give you one more chance to\nfind the path. We are about to gain much honor, Sir William, in this\nenterprise, and it would be a sorry thing if the first blood shed were\nthat of an unworthy boor. Let us say our morning orisons, and it may\nchance that ere we finish he may strike upon the track.\"\n\nWith bowed heads and steel caps in hand, the archers stood at their\nhorse's heads, while Sir Simon Burley repeated the Pater, the Ave, and\nthe Credo. Long did Alleyne bear the scene in mind--the knot of knights\nin their dull leaden-hued armor, the ruddy visage of Sir Oliver, the\ncraggy features of the Scottish earl, the shining scalp of Sir Nigel,\nwith the dense ring of hard, bearded faces and the long brown heads of\nthe horses, all topped and circled by the beetling cliffs. Scarce had\nthe last deep \"amen\" broken from the Company, when, in an instant, there\nrose the scream of a hundred bugles, with the deep rolling of drums and\nthe clashing of cymbals, all sounding together in one deafening uproar.\nKnights and archers sprang to arms, convinced that some great host was\nupon them; but the guide dropped upon his knees and thanked Heaven for\nits mercies.\n\n\"We have found them, caballeros!\" he cried. \"This is their morning call.\nIf ye will but deign to follow me, I will set them before you ere a man\nmight tell his beads.\"\n\nAs he spoke he scrambled down one of the narrow ravines, and, climbing\nover a low ridge at the further end, he led them into a short valley\nwith a stream purling down the centre of it and a very thick growth of\nelder and of box upon either side. Pushing their way through the dense\nbrushwood, they looked out upon a scene which made their hearts beat\nharder and their breath come faster.\n\nIn front of them there lay a broad plain, watered by two winding streams\nand covered with grass, stretching away to where, in the furthest\ndistance, the towers of Burgos bristled up against the light blue\nmorning sky. Over all this vast meadow there lay a great city of\ntents--thousands upon thousands of them, laid out in streets and in\nsquares like a well-ordered town. High silken pavilions or colored\nmarquees, shooting up from among the crowd of meaner dwellings, marked\nwhere the great lords and barons of Leon and Castile displayed their\nstandards, while over the white roofs, as far as eye could reach, the\nwaving of ancients, pavons, pensils, and banderoles, with flash of gold\nand glow of colors, proclaimed that all the chivalry of Iberia were\nmustered in the plain beneath them. Far off, in the centre of the camp,\na huge palace of red and white silk, with the royal arms of Castile\nwaiving from the summit, announced that the gallant Henry lay there in\nthe midst of his warriors.\n\nAs the English adventurers, peeping out from behind their brushwood\nscreen, looked down upon this wondrous sight they could see that the\nvast army in front of them was already afoot. The first pink light of\nthe rising sun glittered upon the steel caps and breastplates of dense\nmasses of slingers and of crossbowmen, who drilled and marched in the\nspaces which had been left for their exercise. A thousand columns of\nsmoke reeked up into the pure morning air where the faggots were piled\nand the camp-kettles already simmering.  In the open plain clouds of\nlight horse galloped and swooped with swaying bodies and waving\njavelins, after the fashion which the Spanish had adopted from their\nMoorish enemies. All along by the sedgy banks of the rivers long lines\nof pages led their masters' chargers down to water, while the knights\nthemselves lounged in gayly-dressed groups about the doors of their\npavilions, or rode out, with their falcons upon their wrists and their\ngreyhounds behind them, in quest of quail or of leveret.\n\n\"By my hilt! mon gar.!\" whispered Aylward to Alleyne, as the young\nsquire stood with parted lips and wondering eyes, gazing down at the\nnovel scene before him, \"we have been seeking them all night, but now\nthat we have found them I know not what we are to do with them.\"\n\n\"You say sooth, Samkin,\" quoth old Johnston. \"I would that we were upon\nthe far side of Ebro again, for there is neither honor nor profit to be\ngained here. What say you, Simon?\"\n\n\"By the rood!\" cried the fierce man-at-arms, \"I will see the color of\ntheir blood ere I turn my mare's head for the mountains. Am I a child,\nthat I should ride for three days and nought but words at the end of\nit?\"\n\n\"Well said, my sweet honeysuckle!\" cried Hordle John. \"I am with you,\nlike hilt to blade. Could I but lay hands upon one of those gay prancers\nyonder, I doubt not that I should have ransom enough from him to buy my\nmother a new cow.\"\n\n\"A cow!\" said Aylward. \"Say rather ten acres and a homestead on the\nbanks of Avon.\"\n\n\"Say you so? Then, by our Lady! here is for yonder one in the red\njerkin!\"\n\nHe was about to push recklessly forward into the open, when Sir Nigel\nhimself darted in front of him, with his hand upon his breast.\n\n\"Back!\" said he. \"Our time is not yet come, and we must lie here until\nevening. Throw off your jacks and headpieces, least their eyes catch the\nshine, and tether the horses among the rocks.\"\n\nThe order was swiftly obeyed, and in ten minutes the archers were\nstretched along by the side of the brook, munching the bread and the\nbacon which they had brought in their bags, and craning their necks to\nwatch the ever-changing scene beneath them. Very quiet and still they\nlay, save for a muttered jest or whispered order, for twice during the\nlong morning they heard bugle-calls from amid the hills on either side\nof them, which showed that they had thrust themselves in between the\noutposts of the enemy. The leaders sat amongst the box-wood, and took\ncounsel together as to what they should do; while from below there\nsurged up the buzz of voices, the shouting, the neighing of horses, and\nall the uproar of a great camp.\n\n\"What boots it to wait?\" said Sir William Felton. \"Let us ride down upon\ntheir camp ere they discover us.\"\n\n\"And so say I,\" cried the Scottish earl; \"for they do not know that\nthere is any enemy within thirty long leagues of them.\"\n\n\"For my part,\" said Sir Simon Burley, \"I think that it is madness, for\nyou cannot hope to rout this great army; and where are you to go and\nwhat are you to do when they have turned upon you? How say you, Sir\nOliver Buttesthorn?\"\n\n\"By the apple of Eve!\" cried the fat knight, \"it appears to me that\nthis wind brings a very savory smell of garlic and of onions from their\ncooking-kettles. I am in favor of riding down upon them at once, if my\nold friend and comrade here is of the same mind.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Sir Nigel, \"I have a plan by which we may attempt some small\ndeed upon them, and yet, by the help of God, may be able to draw off\nagain; which, as Sir Simon Burley hath said, would be scarce possible in\nany other way.\"\n\n\"How then, Sir Nigel?\" asked several voices.\n\n\"We shall lie here all day; for amid this brushwood it is ill for them\nto see us. Then when evening comes we shall sally out upon them and see\nif we may not gain some honorable advancement from them.\"\n\n\"But why then rather than now?\"\n\n\"Because we shall have nightfall to cover us when we draw off, so that\nwe may make our way back through the mountains. I would station a score\nof archers here in the pass, with all our pennons jutting forth from the\nrocks, and as many nakirs and drums and bugles as we have with us, so\nthat those who follow us in the fading light may think that the whole\narmy of the prince is upon them, and fear to go further. What think you\nof my plan, Sir Simon?\"\n\n\"By my troth! I think very well of it,\" cried the prudent old commander.\n\"If four hundred men must needs run a tilt against sixty thousand, I\ncannot see how they can do it better or more safely.\"\n\n\"And so say I,\" cried Felton, heartily. \"But I wish the day were over,\nfor it will be an ill thing for us if they chance to light upon us.\"\n\nThe words were scarce out of his mouth when there came a clatter of\nloose stones, the sharp clink of trotting hoofs, and a dark-faced\ncavalier, mounted upon a white horse, burst through the bushes and rode\nswiftly down the valley from the end which was farthest from the Spanish\ncamp. Lightly armed, with his vizor open and a hawk perched upon his\nleft wrist, he looked about him with the careless air of a man who is\nbent wholly upon pleasure, and unconscious of the possibility of danger.\nSuddenly, however, his eyes lit upon the fierce faces which glared out\nat him from the brushwood. With a cry of terror, he thrust his spurs\ninto his horse's sides and dashed for the narrow opening of the gorge.\nFor a moment it seemed as though he would have reached it, for he had\ntrampled over or dashed aside the archers who threw themselves in his\nway; but Hordle John seized him by the foot in his grasp of iron and\ndragged him from the saddle, while two others caught the frightened\nhorse.\n\n\"Ho, ho!\" roared the great archer. \"How many cows wilt buy my mother, if\nI set thee free?\"\n\n\"Hush that bull's bellowing!\" cried Sir Nigel impatiently. \"Bring the\nman here. By St. Paul! it is not the first time that we have met; for,\nif I mistake not, it is Don Diego Alvarez, who was once at the prince's\ncourt.\"\n\n\"It is indeed I,\" said the Spanish knight, speaking in the French\ntongue, \"and I pray you to pass your sword through my heart, for how can\nI live--I, a caballero of Castile--after being dragged from my horse by\nthe base hands of a common archer?\"\n\n\"Fret not for that,\" answered Sir Nigel. \"For, in sooth, had he not\npulled you down, a dozen cloth-yard shafts had crossed each other in\nyour body.\"\n\n\"By St. James! it were better so than to be polluted by his touch,\"\nanswered the Spaniard, with his black eyes sparkling with rage and\nhatred. \"I trust that I am now the prisoner of some honorable knight or\ngentleman.\"\n\n\"You are the prisoner of the man who took you, Sir Diego,\" answered Sir\nNigel. \"And I may tell you that better men than either you or I have\nfound themselves before now prisoners in the hands of archers of\nEngland.\"\n\n\"What ransom, then, does he demand?\" asked the Spaniard.\n\nBig John scratched his red head and grinned in high delight when the\nquestion was propounded to him. \"Tell him,\" said he, \"that I shall have\nten cows and a bull too, if it be but a little one. Also a dress of\nblue sendall for mother and a red one for Joan; with five acres of\npasture-land, two scythes, and a fine new grindstone. Likewise a small\nhouse, with stalls for the cows, and thirty-six gallons of beer for the\nthirsty weather.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" cried Sir Nigel, laughing. \"All these things may be had for\nmoney; and I think, Don Diego, that five thousand crowns is not too much\nfor so renowned a knight.\"\n\n\"It shall be duly paid him.\"\n\n\"For some days we must keep you with us; and I must crave leave also to\nuse your shield, your armor, and your horse.\"\n\n\"My harness is yours by the law of arms,\" said the Spaniard, gloomily.\n\n\"I do but ask the loan of it. I have need of it this day, but it shall\nbe duly returned to you. Set guards, Aylward, with arrow on string, at\neither end of the pass; for it may happen that some other cavaliers may\nvisit us ere the time be come.\" All day the little band of Englishmen\nlay in the sheltered gorge, looking down upon the vast host of their\nunconscious enemies. Shortly after mid-day, a great uproar of shouting\nand cheering broke out in the camp, with mustering of men and calling of\nbugles. Clambering up among the rocks, the companions saw a long rolling\ncloud of dust along the whole eastern sky-line, with the glint of spears\nand the flutter of pennons, which announced the approach of a large body\nof cavalry. For a moment a wild hope came upon them that perhaps the\nprince had moved more swiftly than had been planned, that he had crossed\nthe Ebro, and that this was his vanguard sweeping to the attack.\n\n\"Surely I see the red pile of Chandos at the head of yonder squadron!\"\ncried Sir Richard Causton, shading his eyes with his hand.\n\n\"Not so,\" answered Sir Simon Burley, who had watched the approaching\nhost with a darkening face. \"It is even as I feared. That is the double\neagle of Du Guesclin.\"\n\n\"You say very truly,\" cried the Earl of Angus. \"These are the levies of\nFrance, for I can see the ensigns of the Marshal d'Andreghen, with\nthat of the Lord of Antoing and of Briseuil, and of many another from\nBrittany and Anjou.\"\n\n\"By St. Paul! I am very glad of it,\" said Sir Nigel. \"Of these Spaniards\nI know nothing; but the French are very worthy gentlemen, and will do\nwhat they can for our advancement.\"\n\n\"There are at the least four thousand of them, and all men-at-arms,\"\ncried Sir William Felton. \"See, there is Bertrand himself, beside his\nbanner, and there is King Henry, who rides to welcome him. Now they all\nturn and come into the camp together.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the vast throng of Spaniards and of Frenchmen trooped\nacross the plain, with brandished arms and tossing banners. All day long\nthe sound of revelry and of rejoicing from the crowded camp swelled up\nto the ears of the Englishmen, and they could see the soldiers of the\ntwo nations throwing themselves into each other's arms and dancing\nhand-in-hand round the blazing fires. The sun had sunk behind a\ncloud-bank in the west before Sir Nigel at last gave word that the men\nshould resume their arms and have their horses ready. He had himself\nthrown off his armor, and had dressed himself from head to foot in the\nharness of the captured Spaniard.\n\n\"Sir William,\" said he, \"it is my intention to attempt a small deed, and\nI ask you therefore that you will lead this outfall upon the camp. For\nme, I will ride into their camp with my squire and two archers. I pray\nyou to watch me, and to ride forth when I am come among the tents. You\nwill leave twenty men behind here, as we planned this morning, and you\nwill ride back here after you have ventured as far as seems good to\nyou.\"\n\n\"I will do as you order, Nigel; but what is it that you propose to do?\"\n\n\"You will see anon, and indeed it is but a trifling matter. Alleyne, you\nwill come with me, and lead a spare horse by the bridle. I will have the\ntwo archers who rode with us through France, for they are trusty men and\nof stout heart. Let them ride behind us, and let them leave their bows\nhere among the bushes for it is not my wish that they should know that\nwe are Englishmen. Say no word to any whom we may meet, and, if any\nspeak to you, pass on as though you heard them not. Are you ready?\"\n\n\"I am ready, my fair lord,\" said Alleyne.\n\n\"And I,\" \"And I,\" cried Aylward and John.\n\n\"Then the rest I leave to your wisdom, Sir William; and if God sends us\nfortune we shall meet you again in this gorge ere it be dark.\"\n\nSo saying, Sir Nigel mounted the white horse of the Spanish cavalier,\nand rode quietly forth from his concealment with his three companions\nbehind him, Alleyne leading his master's own steed by the bridle. So\nmany small parties of French and Spanish horse were sweeping hither and\nthither that the small band attracted little notice, and making its way\nat a gentle trot across the plain, they came as far as the camp without\nchallenge or hindrance. On and on they pushed past the endless lines of\ntents, amid the dense swarms of horsemen and of footmen, until the huge\nroyal pavilion stretched in front of them. They were close upon it when\nof a sudden there broke out a wild hubbub from a distant portion of the\ncamp, with screams and war-cries and all the wild tumult of battle. At\nthe sound soldiers came rushing from their tents, knights shouted loudly\nfor their squires, and there was mad turmoil on every hand of bewildered\nmen and plunging horses. At the royal tent a crowd of gorgeously dressed\nservants ran hither and thither in helpless panic for the guard\nof soldiers who were stationed there had already ridden off in the\ndirection of the alarm. A man-at-arms on either side of the doorway were\nthe sole protectors of the royal dwelling.\n\n\"I have come for the king,\" whispered Sir Nigel; \"and, by Saint Paul! he\nmust back with us or I must bide here.\"\n\nAlleyne and Aylward sprang from their horses, and flew at the two\nsentries, who were disarmed and beaten down in an instant by so furious\nand unexpected an attack. Sir Nigel dashed into the royal tent, and was\nfollowed by Hordle John as soon as the horses had been secured. From\nwithin came wild screamings and the clash of steel, and then the two\nemerged once more, their swords and forearms reddened with blood,\nwhile John bore over his shoulder the senseless body of a man whose gay\nsurcoat, adorned with the lions and towers of Castile, proclaimed him\nto belong to the royal house. A crowd of white-faced sewers and pages\nswarmed at their heels, those behind pushing forwards, while the\nforemost shrank back from the fierce faces and reeking weapons of the\nadventurers. The senseless body was thrown across the spare horse, the\nfour sprang to their saddles, and away they thundered with loose reins\nand busy spurs through the swarming camp.\n\nBut confusion and disorder still reigned among the Spaniards for Sir\nWilliam Felton and his men had swept through half their camp, leaving\na long litter of the dead and the dying to mark their course. Uncertain\nwho were their attackers, and unable to tell their English enemies\nfrom their newly-arrived Breton allies, the Spanish knights rode wildly\nhither and thither in aimless fury. The mad turmoil, the mixture of\nraces, and the fading light, were all in favor of the four who alone\nknew their own purpose among the vast uncertain multitude. Twice ere\nthey reached open ground they had to break their way through small\nbodies of horses, and once there came a whistle of arrows and singing of\nstones about their ears; but, still dashing onwards, they shot out\nfrom among the tents and found their own comrades retreating for the\nmountains at no very great distance from them. Another five minutes of\nwild galloping over the plain, and they were all back in their gorge,\nwhile their pursuers fell back before the rolling of drums and blare of\ntrumpets, which seemed to proclaim that the whole army of the prince was\nabout to emerge from the mountain passes.\n\n\"By my soul! Nigel,\" cried Sir Oliver, waving a great boiled ham over\nhis head, \"I have come by something which I may eat with my truffles! I\nhad a hard fight for it, for there were three of them with their mouths\nopen and the knives in their hands, all sitting agape round the table,\nwhen I rushed in upon them. How say you, Sir William, will you not try\nthe smack of the famed Spanish swine, though we have but the brook water\nto wash it down?\"\n\n\"Later, Sir Oliver,\" answered the old soldier, wiping his grimed face.\n\"We must further into the mountains ere we be in safety. But what have\nwe here, Nigel?\"\n\n\"It is a prisoner whom I have taken, and in sooth, as he came from the\nroyal tent and wears the royal arms upon his jupon, I trust that he is\nthe King of Spain.\"\n\n\"The King of Spain!\" cried the companions, crowding round in amazement.\n\n\"Nay, Sir Nigel,\" said Felton, peering at the prisoner through the\nuncertain light, \"I have twice seen Henry of Transtamare, and certes\nthis man in no way resembles him.\"\n\n\"Then, by the light of heaven! I will ride back for him,\" cried Sir\nNigel.\n\n\"Nay, nay, the camp is in arms, and it would be rank madness. Who are\nyou, fellow?\" he added in Spanish, \"and how is it that you dare to wear\nthe arms of Castile?\"\n\nThe prisoner was bent recovering the consciousness which had been\nsqueezed from him by the grip of Hordle John. \"If it please you,\" he\nanswered, \"I and nine others are the body-squires of the king, and must\never wear his arms, so as to shield him from even such perils as have\nthreatened him this night. The king is at the tent of the brave Du\nGuesclin, where he will sup to night. But I am a caballero of Aragon,\nDon Sancho Penelosa, and, though I be no king, I am yet ready to pay a\nfitting price for my ransom.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul! I will not touch your gold,\" cried Sir Nigel. \"Go back\nto your master and give him greeting from Sir Nigel Loring of Twynham\nCastle, telling him that I had hoped to make his better acquaintance\nthis night, and that, if I have disordered his tent, it was but in my\neagerness to know so famed and courteous a knight. Spur on, comrades!\nfor we must cover many a league ere we can venture to light fire or to\nloosen girth. I had hoped to ride without this patch to-night, but it\nseems that I must carry it yet a little longer.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI. HOW SIR NIGEL TOOK THE PATCH FROM HIS EYE.\n\n\nIt was a cold, bleak morning in the beginning of March, and the mist was\ndrifting in dense rolling clouds through the passes of the Cantabrian\nmountains. The Company, who had passed the night in a sheltered gully,\nwere already astir, some crowding round the blazing fires and others\nromping or leaping over each other's backs for their limbs were chilled\nand the air biting. Here and there, through the dense haze which\nsurrounded them, there loomed out huge pinnacles and jutting boulders\nof rock: while high above the sea of vapor there towered up one gigantic\npeak, with the pink glow of the early sunshine upon its snow-capped\nhead. The ground was wet, the rocks dripping, the grass and ever-greens\nsparkling with beads of moisture; yet the camp was loud with laughter\nand merriment, for a messenger had ridden in from the prince with words\nof heart-stirring praise for what they had done, and with orders that\nthey should still abide in the forefront of the army.\n\nRound one of the fires were clustered four or five of the leading men\nof the archers, cleaning the rust from their weapons, and glancing\nimpatiently from time to time at a great pot which smoked over the\nblaze. There was Aylward squatting cross-legged in his shirt, while he\nscrubbed away at his chain-mail brigandine, whistling loudly the while.\nOn one side of him sat old Johnston, who was busy in trimming the\nfeathers of some arrows to his liking; and on the other Hordle John, who\nlay with his great limbs all asprawl, and his headpiece balanced upon\nhis uplifted foot. Black Simon of Norwich crouched amid the rocks,\ncrooning an Eastland ballad to himself, while he whetted his sword upon\na flat stone which lay across his knees; while beside him sat Alleyne\nEdricson, and Norbury, the silent squire of Sir Oliver, holding out\ntheir chilled hands towards the crackling faggots.\n\n\"Cast on another culpon, John, and stir the broth with thy\nsword-sheath,\" growled Johnston, looking anxiously for the twentieth\ntime at the reeking pot.\n\n\"By my hilt!\" cried Aylward, \"now that John hath come by this great\nransom, he will scarce abide the fare of poor archer lads. How say you,\ncamarade? When you see Hordle once more, there will be no penny ale and\nfat bacon, but Gascon wines and baked meats every day of the seven.\"\n\n\"I know not about that,\" said John, kicking his helmet up into the air\nand catching it in his hand. \"I do but know that whether the broth be\nready or no, I am about to dip this into it.\"\n\n\"It simmers and it boils,\" cried Johnston, pushing his hard-lined face\nthrough the smoke. In an instant the pot had been plucked from the\nblaze, and its contents had been scooped up in half a dozen steel\nhead-pieces, which were balanced betwixt their owners' knees, while,\nwith spoon and gobbet of bread, they devoured their morning meal.\n\n\"It is ill weather for bows,\" remarked John at last, when, with a long\nsigh, he drained the last drop from his helmet. \"My strings are as limp\nas a cow's tail this morning.\"\n\n\"You should rub them with water glue,\" quoth Johnston. \"You remember,\nSamkin, that it was wetter than this on the morning of Crecy, and yet I\ncannot call to mind that there was aught amiss with our strings.\"\n\n\"It is in my thoughts,\" said Black Simon, still pensively grinding his\nsword, \"that we may have need of your strings ere sundown. I dreamed of\nthe red cow last night.\"\n\n\"And what is this red cow, Simon?\" asked Alleyne.\n\n\"I know not, young sir; but I can only say that on the eve of Cadsand,\nand on the eve of Crecy, and on the eve of Nogent, I dreamed of a red\ncow; and now the dream has come upon me again, so I am now setting a\nvery keen edge to my blade.\"\n\n\"Well said, old war-dog!\" cried Aylward. \"By my hilt! I pray that your\ndream may come true, for the prince hath not set us out here to drink\nbroth or to gather whortle-berries. One more fight, and I am ready to\nhang up my bow, marry a wife, and take to the fire corner. But how now,\nRobin? Whom is it that you seek?\"\n\n\"The Lord Loring craves your attendance in his tent,\" said a young\narcher to Alleyne.\n\nThe squire rose and proceeded to the pavilion, where he found the knight\nseated upon a cushion, with his legs crossed in front of him and a broad\nribbon of parchment laid across his knees, over which he was poring with\nfrowning brows and pursed lips.\n\n\"It came this morning by the prince's messenger,\" said he, \"and was\nbrought from England by Sir John Fallislee, who is new come from Sussex.\nWhat make you of this upon the outer side?\"\n\n\"It is fairly and clearly written,\" Alleyne answered, \"and it signifies\nTo Sir Nigel Loring, Knight Constable of Twynham Castle, by the hand of\nChristopher, the servant of God at the Priory of Christchurch.\"\n\n\"So I read it,\" said Sir Nigel. \"Now I pray you to read what is set\nforth within.\"\n\nAlleyne turned to the letter, and, as his eyes rested upon it, his face\nturned pale and a cry of surprise and grief burst from his lips.\n\n\"What then?\" asked the knight, peering up at him anxiously. \"There is\nnought amiss with the Lady Mary or with the Lady Maude?\"\n\n\"It is my brother--my poor unhappy brother!\" cried Alleyne, with his\nhand to his brow. \"He is dead.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul! I have never heard that he had shown so much love for\nyou that you should mourn him so.\"\n\n\"Yet he was my brother--the only kith or kin that I had upon earth.\nMayhap he had cause to be bitter against me, for his land was given to\nthe abbey for my upbringing. Alas! alas! and I raised my staff against\nhim when last we met! He has been slain--and slain, I fear, amidst crime\nand violence.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Sir Nigel. \"Read on, I pray you.\"\n\n\"'God be with thee, my honored lord, and have thee in his holy keeping.\nThe Lady Loring hath asked me to set down in writing what hath befallen\nat Twynham, and all that concerns the death of thy ill neighbor the\nSocman of Minstead. For when ye had left us, this evil man gathered\naround him all outlaws, villeins, and masterless men, until they were\ncome to such a force that they slew and scattered the king's men who\nwent against them. Then, coming forth from the woods, they laid siege to\nthy castle, and for two days they girt us in and shot hard against us,\nwith such numbers as were a marvel to see. Yet the Lady Loring held the\nplace stoutly, and on the second day the Socman was slain--by his own\nmen, as some think--so that we were delivered from their hands; for\nwhich praise be to all the saints, and more especially to the holy\nAnselm, upon whose feast it came to pass. The Lady Loring, and the Lady\nMaude, thy fair daughter, are in good health; and so also am I, save for\nan imposthume of the toe-joint, which hath been sent me for my sins. May\nall the saints preserve thee!'\"\n\n\"It was the vision of the Lady Tiphaine,\" said Sir Nigel, after a pause.\n\"Marked you not how she said that the leader was one with a yellow\nbeard, and how he fell before the gate. But how came it, Alleyne, that\nthis woman, to whom all things are as crystal, and who hath not said one\nword which has not come to pass, was yet so led astray as to say that\nyour thoughts turned to Twynham Castle even more than my own?\"\n\n\"My fair lord,\" said Alleyne, with a flush on his weather-stained\ncheeks, \"the Lady Tiphaine may have spoken sooth when she said it; for\nTwynham Castle is in my heart by day and in my dreams by night.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried Sir Nigel, with a sidelong glance.\n\n\"Yes, my fair lord; for indeed I love your daughter, the Lady Maude;\nand, unworthy as I am, I would give my heart's blood to serve her.\"\n\n\"By St. Paul! Edricson,\" said the knight coldly, arching his eyebrows,\n\"you aim high in this matter. Our blood is very old.\"\n\n\"And mine also is very old,\" answered the squire.\n\n\"And the Lady Maude is our single child. All our name and lands centre\nupon her.\"\n\n\"Alas! that I should say it, but I also am now the only Edricson.\"\n\n\"And why have I not heard this from you before, Alleyne? In sooth, I\nthink that you have used me ill.\"\n\n\"Nay, my fair lord, say not so; for I know not whether your daughter\nloves me, and there is no pledge between us.\"\n\nSir Nigel pondered for a few moments, and then burst out a-laughing. \"By\nSt. Paul!\" said he, \"I know not why I should mix in the matter; for I\nhave ever found that the Lady Maud was very well able to\nlook to her own affairs. Since first she could stamp her little foot,\nshe hath ever been able to get that for which she craved; and if she set\nher heart on thee, Alleyne, and thou on her, I do not think that this\nSpanish king, with his three-score thousand men, could hold you apart.\nYet this I will say, that I would see you a full knight ere you go to my\ndaughter with words of love. I have ever said that a brave lance should\nwed her; and, by my soul! Edricson, if God spare you, I think that you\nwill acquit yourself well. But enough of such trifles, for we have our\nwork before us, and it will be time to speak of this matter when we see\nthe white cliffs of England once more. Go to Sir William Felton, I pray\nyou, and ask him to come hither, for it is time that we were marching.\nThere is no pass at the further end of the valley, and it is a perilous\nplace should an enemy come upon us.\"\n\nAlleyne delivered his message, and then wandered forth from the camp,\nfor his mind was all in a whirl with this unexpected news, and with his\ntalk with Sir Nigel. Sitting upon a rock, with his burning brow resting\nupon his hands, he thought of his brother, of their quarrel, of the Lady\nMaude in her bedraggled riding-dress, of the gray old castle, of the\nproud pale face in the armory, and of the last fiery words with which\nshe had sped him on his way. Then he was but a penniless, monk-bred lad,\nunknown and unfriended. Now he was himself Socman of Minstead, the head\nof an old stock, and the lord of an estate which, if reduced from its\nformer size, was still ample to preserve the dignity of his family.\nFurther, he had become a man of experience, was counted brave among\nbrave men, had won the esteem and confidence of her father, and, above\nall, had been listened to by him when he told him the secret of his\nlove. As to the gaining of knighthood, in such stirring times it was no\ngreat matter for a brave squire of gentle birth to aspire to that honor.\nHe would leave his bones among these Spanish ravines, or he would do\nsome deed which would call the eyes of men upon him.\n\nAlleyne was still seated on the rock, his griefs and his joys drifting\nswiftly over his mind like the shadow of clouds upon a sunlit meadow,\nwhen of a sudden he became conscious of a low, deep sound which came\nbooming up to him through the fog. Close behind him he could hear the\nmurmur of the bowmen, the occasional bursts of hoarse laughter, and the\nchamping and stamping of their horses. Behind it all, however, came that\nlow-pitched, deep-toned hum, which seemed to come from every quarter and\nto fill the whole air. In the old monastic days he remembered to\nhave heard such a sound when he had walked out one windy night at\nBucklershard, and had listened to the long waves breaking upon the\nshingly shore. Here, however, was neither wind nor sea, and yet the dull\nmurmur rose ever louder and stronger out of the heart of the rolling sea\nof vapor. He turned and ran to the camp, shouting an alarm at the top of\nhis voice.\n\nIt was but a hundred paces, and yet ere he had crossed it every bowman\nwas ready at his horse's head, and the group of knights were out and\nlistening intently to the ominous sound.\n\n\"It is a great body of horse,\" said Sir William Felton, \"and they are\nriding very swiftly hitherwards.\"\n\n\"Yet they must be from the prince's army,\" remarked Sir Richard Causton,\n\"for they come from the north.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the Earl of Angus, \"it is not so certain; for the peasant\nwith whom we spoke last night said that it was rumored that Don Tello,\nthe Spanish king's brother, had ridden with six thousand chosen men to\nbeat up the prince's camp. It may be that on their backward road they\nhave come this way.\"\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" cried Sir Nigel, \"I think that it is even as you say, for\nthat same peasant had a sour face and a shifting eye, as one who bore us\nlittle good will. I doubt not that he has brought these cavaliers upon\nus.\"\n\n\"But the mist covers us,\" said Sir Simon Burley. \"We have yet time to\nride through the further end of the pass.\"\n\n\"Were we a troop of mountain goats we might do so,\" answered Sir William\nFelton, \"but it is not to be passed by a company of horsemen. If these\nbe indeed Don Tello and his men, then we must bide where we are, and do\nwhat we can to make them rue the day that they found us in their path.\"\n\n\"Well spoken, William!\" cried Sir Nigel, in high delight. \"If there be\nso many as has been said, then there will be much honor to be gained\nfrom them and every hope of advancement. But the sound has ceased, and I\nfear that they have gone some other way.\"\n\n\"Or mayhap they have come to the mouth of the gorge, and are marshalling\ntheir ranks. Hush and hearken! for they are no great way from us.\"\n\nThe Company stood peering into the dense fog-wreath, amidst a silence so\nprofound that the dripping of the water from the rocks and the breathing\nof the horses grew loud upon the ear. Suddenly from out the sea of mist\ncame the shrill sound of a neigh, followed by a long blast upon a bugle.\n\n\"It is a Spanish call, my fair lord,\" said Black Simon. \"It is used by\ntheir prickers and huntsmen when the beast hath not fled, but is still\nin its lair.\"\n\n\"By my faith!\" said Sir Nigel, smiling, \"if they are in a humor for\nvenerie we may promise them some sport ere they sound the mort over us.\nBut there is a hill in the centre of the gorge on which we might take\nour stand.\"\n\n\"I marked it yester-night,\" said Felton, \"and no better spot could be\nfound for our purpose, for it is very steep at the back. It is but a\nbow-shot to the left, and, indeed, I can see the shadow of it.\"\n\nThe whole Company, leading their horses, passed across to the small hill\nwhich loomed in front of them out of the mist. It was indeed admirably\ndesigned for defence, for it sloped down in front, all jagged and\nboulder-strewn, while it fell away in a sheer cliff of a hundred feet or\nmore. On the summit was a small uneven plateau, with a stretch across of\na hundred paces, and a depth of half as much again.\n\n\"Unloose the horses!\" said Sir Nigel. \"We have no space for them, and if\nwe hold our own we shall have horses and to spare when this day's work\nis done. Nay, keep yours, my fair sirs, for we may have work for them.\nAylward, Johnston, let your men form a harrow on either side of the\nridge. Sir Oliver and you, my Lord Angus, I give you the right wing, and\nthe left to you, Sir Simon, and to you, Sir Richard Causton. I and Sir\nWilliam Felton will hold the centre with our men-at-arms. Now order\nthe ranks, and fling wide the banners, for our souls are God's and our\nbodies the king's, and our swords for Saint George and for England!\"\n\nSir Nigel had scarcely spoken when the mist seemed to thin in the\nvalley, and to shred away into long ragged clouds which trailed from\nthe edges of the cliffs. The gorge in which they had camped was a mere\nwedge-shaped cleft among the hills, three-quarters of a mile deep, with\nthe small rugged rising upon which they stood at the further end, and\nthe brown crags walling it in on three sides. As the mist parted, and\nthe sun broke through, it gleamed and shimmered with dazzling brightness\nupon the armor and headpieces of a vast body of horsemen who stretched\nacross the barranca from one cliff to the other, and extended backwards\nuntil their rear guard were far out upon the plain beyond. Line after\nline, and rank after rank, they choked the neck of the valley with\na long vista of tossing pennons, twinkling lances, waving plumes and\nstreaming banderoles, while the curvets and gambades of the chargers\nlent a constant motion and shimmer to the glittering, many-colored mass.\nA yell of exultation, and a forest of waving steel through the length\nand breadth of their column, announced that they could at last see their\nentrapped enemies, while the swelling notes of a hundred bugles and\ndrums, mixed with the clash of Moorish cymbals, broke forth into a proud\npeal of martial triumph. Strange it was to these gallant and sparkling\ncavaliers of Spain to look upon this handful of men upon the hill, the\nthin lines of bowmen, the knots of knights and men-at-arms with armor\nrusted and discolored from long service, and to learn that these were\nindeed the soldiers whose fame and prowess had been the camp-fire talk\nof every army in Christendom. Very still and silent they stood, leaning\nupon their bows, while their leaders took counsel together in front of\nthem. No clang of bugle rose from their stern ranks, but in the centre\nwaved the leopards of England, on the right the ensign of their Company\nwith the roses of Loring, and on the left, over three score of Welsh\nbowmen, there floated the red banner of Merlin with the boars'-heads of\nthe Buttesthorns. Gravely and sedately they stood beneath the morning\nsun waiting for the onslaught of their foemen.\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" said Sir Nigel, gazing with puckered eye down the\nvalley, \"there appear to be some very worthy people among them. What is\nthis golden banner which waves upon the left?\"\n\n\"It is the ensign of the Knights of Calatrava,\" answered Felton.\n\n\"And the other upon the right?\"\n\n\"It marks the Knights of Santiago, and I see by his flag that their\ngrand-master rides at their head. There too is the banner of Castile\namid yonder sparkling squadron which heads the main battle. There are\nsix thousand men-at-arms with ten squadrons of slingers as far as I may\njudge their numbers.\"\n\n\"There are Frenchmen among them, my fair lord,\" remarked Black Simon.\n\"I can see the pennons of De Couvette, De Brieux, Saint Pol, and many\nothers who struck in against us for Charles of Blois.\"\n\n\"You are right,\" said Sir William, \"for I can also see them. There is\nmuch Spanish blazonry also, if I could but read it. Don Diego, you know\nthe arms of your own land. Who are they who have done us this honor?\"\n\nThe Spanish prisoner looked with exultant eyes upon the deep and serried\nranks of his countrymen.\n\n\"By Saint James!\" said he, \"if ye fall this day ye fall by no mean\nhands, for the flower of the knighthood of Castile ride under the banner\nof Don Tello, with the chivalry of Asturias, Toledo, Leon, Cordova,\nGalicia, and Seville. I see the guidons of Albornez, Cacorla, Rodriguez,\nTavora, with the two great orders, and the knights of France and of\nAragon. If you will take my rede you will come to a composition with\nthem, for they will give you such terms as you have given me.\"\n\n\"Nay, by Saint Paul! it were pity if so many brave men were drawn\ntogether, and no little deed of arms to come of it. Ha! William, they\nadvance upon us; and, by my soul! it is a sight that is worth coming\nover the seas to see.\"\n\nAs he spoke, the two wings of the Spanish host, consisting of the\nKnights of Calatrava on the one side and of Santiago upon the other,\ncame swooping swiftly down the valley, while the main body followed more\nslowly behind. Five hundred paces from the English the two great bodies\nof horse crossed each other, and, sweeping round in a curve, retired\nin feigned confusion towards their centre. Often in bygone wars had the\nMoors tempted the hot-blooded Spaniards from their places of strength by\nsuch pretended flights, but there were men upon the hill to whom every\nruse and trick of war were as their daily trade and practice. Again and\neven nearer came the rallying Spaniards, and again with cry of fear\nand stooping bodies they swerved off to right and left, but the English\nstill stood stolid and observant among their rocks. The vanguard halted\na long bow shot from the hill, and with waving spears and vaunting\nshouts challenged their enemies to come forth, while two cavaliers,\npricking forward from the glittering ranks, walked their horses slowly\nbetween the two arrays with targets braced and lances in rest like the\nchallengers in a tourney.\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" cried Sir Nigel, with his one eye glowing like an\nember, \"these appear to be two very worthy and debonair gentlemen. I do\nnot call to mind when I have seen any people who seemed of so great a\nheart and so high of enterprise. We have our horses, Sir William: shall\nwe not relieve them of any vow which they may have upon their souls?\"\n\nFelton's reply was to bound upon his charger, and to urge it down the\nslope, while Sir Nigel followed not three spears'-lengths behind him.\nIt was a rugged course, rocky and uneven, yet the two knights, choosing\ntheir men, dashed onwards at the top of their speed, while the gallant\nSpaniards flew as swiftly to meet them. The one to whom Felton found\nhimself opposed was a tall stripling with a stag's head upon his shield,\nwhile Sir Nigel's man was broad and squat with plain steel harness, and\na pink and white torse bound round his helmet. The first struck Felton\non the target with such force as to split it from side to side, but Sir\nWilliam's lance crashed through the camail which shielded the Spaniard's\nthroat, and he fell, screaming hoarsely, to the ground. Carried away by\nthe heat and madness of fight, the English knight never drew rein, but\ncharged straight on into the array of the knights of Calatrava. Long\ntime the silent ranks upon the hill could see a swirl and eddy deep down\nin the heart of the Spanish column, with a circle of rearing chargers\nand flashing blades. Here and there tossed the white plume of the\nEnglish helmet, rising and falling like the foam upon a wave, with the\nfierce gleam and sparkle ever circling round it until at last it had\nsunk from view, and another brave man had turned from war to peace.\n\nSir Nigel, meanwhile, had found a foeman worthy of his steel for his\nopponent was none other than Sebastian Gomez, the picked lance of\nthe monkish Knights of Santiago, who had won fame in a hundred bloody\ncombats with the Moors of Andalusia. So fierce was their meeting that\ntheir spears shivered up to the very grasp, and the horses reared\nbackwards until it seemed that they must crash down upon their riders.\nYet with consummate horsemanship they both swung round in a long curvet,\nand then plucking out their swords they lashed at each other like two\nlusty smiths hammering upon an anvil. The chargers spun round each\nother, biting and striking, while the two blades wheeled and whizzed and\ncircled in gleams of dazzling light. Cut, parry, and thrust followed\nso swiftly upon each other that the eye could not follow them, until at\nlast coming thigh to thigh, they cast their arms around each other\nand rolled off their saddles to the ground. The heavier Spaniard threw\nhimself upon his enemy, and pinning him down beneath him raised his\nsword to slay him, while a shout of triumph rose from the ranks of his\ncountrymen. But the fatal blow never fell, for even as his arm quivered\nbefore descending, the Spaniard gave a shudder, and stiffening himself\nrolled heavily over upon his side, with the blood gushing from his\narmpit and from the slit of his vizor. Sir Nigel sprang to his feet with\nhis bloody dagger in his left hand and gazed down upon his adversary,\nbut that fatal and sudden stab in the vital spot, which the Spaniard had\nexposed by raising his arm, had proved instantly mortal. The Englishman\nleaped upon his horse and made for the hill, at the very instant that a\nyell of rage from a thousand voices and the clang of a score of bugles\nannounced the Spanish onset.\n\nBut the islanders were ready and eager for the encounter. With feet\nfirmly planted, their sleeves rolled back to give free play to their\nmuscles, their long yellow bow-staves in their left hands, and their\nquivers slung to the front, they had waited in the four-deep harrow\nformation which gave strength to their array, and yet permitted every\nman to draw his arrow freely without harm to those in front. Aylward and\nJohnston had been engaged in throwing light tufts of grass into the air\nto gauge the wind force, and a hoarse whisper passed down the ranks from\nthe file-leaders to the men, with scraps of advice and admonition.\n\n\"Do not shoot outside the fifteen-score paces,\" cried Johnston. \"We may\nneed all our shafts ere we have done with them.\"\n\n\"Better to overshoot than to undershoot,\" added Aylward. \"Better to\nstrike the rear guard than to feather a shaft in the earth.\"\n\n\"Loose quick and sharp when they come,\" added another. \"Let it be the\neye to the string, the string to the shaft, and the shaft to the mark.\nBy Our Lady! their banners advance, and we must hold our ground now if\never we are to see Southampton Water again.\"\n\nAlleyne, standing with his sword drawn amidst the archers, saw a long\ntoss and heave of the glittering squadrons. Then the front ranks began\nto surge slowly forward, to trot, to canter, to gallop, and in an\ninstant the whole vast array was hurtling onward, line after line, the\nair full of the thunder of their cries, the ground shaking with the beat\nof their hoofs, the valley choked with the rushing torrent of steel,\ntopped by the waving plumes, the slanting spears and the fluttering\nbanderoles. On they swept over the level and up to the slope, ere they\nmet the blinding storm of the English arrows. Down went the whole ranks\nin a whirl of mad confusion, horses plunging and kicking, bewildered men\nfalling, rising, staggering on or back, while ever new lines of horsemen\ncame spurring through the gaps and urged their chargers up the fatal\nslope. All around him Alleyne could hear the stern, short orders of the\nmaster-bowmen, while the air was filled with the keen twanging of the\nstrings and the swish and patter of the shafts. Right across the foot\nof the hill there had sprung up a long wall of struggling horses and\nstricken men, which ever grew and heightened as fresh squadrons poured\non the attack. One young knight on a gray jennet leaped over his fallen\ncomrades and galloped swiftly up the hill, shrieking loudly upon Saint\nJames, ere he fell within a spear-length of the English line, with the\nfeathers of arrows thrusting out from every crevice and joint of his\narmor. So for five long minutes the gallant horsemen of Spain and of\nFrance strove ever and again to force a passage, until the wailing\nnote of a bugle called them back, and they rode slowly out of bow-shot,\nleaving their best and their bravest in the ghastly, blood-mottled heap\nbehind them.\n\nBut there was little rest for the victors. Whilst the knights had\ncharged them in front the slingers had crept round upon either flank and\nhad gained a footing upon the cliffs and behind the outlying rocks.\nA storm of stones broke suddenly upon the defenders, who, drawn up in\nlines upon the exposed summit, offered a fair mark to their hidden\nfoes. Johnston, the old archer, was struck upon the temple and fell dead\nwithout a groan, while fifteen of his bowmen and six of the men-at-arms\nwere struck down at the same moment. The others lay on their faces to\navoid the deadly hail, while at each side of the plateau a fringe of\nbowmen exchanged shots with the slingers and crossbowmen among the\nrocks, aiming mainly at those who had swarmed up the cliffs, and\nbursting into laughter and cheers when a well-aimed shaft brought one of\ntheir opponents toppling down from his lofty perch.\n\n\"I think, Nigel,\" said Sir Oliver, striding across to the little knight,\n\"that we should all acquit ourselves better had we our none-meat, for\nthe sun is high in the heaven.\"\n\n\"By Saint Paul!\" quoth Sir Nigel, plucking the patch from his eye,\n\"I think that I am now clear of my vow, for this Spanish knight was a\nperson from whom much honor might be won. Indeed, he was a very worthy\ngentleman, of good courage, and great hardiness, and it grieves me that\nhe should have come by such a hurt. As to what you say of food, Oliver,\nit is not to be thought of, for we have nothing with us upon the hill.\"\n\n\"Nigel!\" cried Sir Simon Burley, hurrying up with consternation upon his\nface, \"Aylward tells me that there are not ten-score arrows left in all\ntheir sheaves. See! they are springing from their horses, and cutting\ntheir sollerets that they may rush upon us. Might we not even now make a\nretreat?\"\n\n\"My soul will retreat from my body first!\" cried the little knight.\n\"Here I am, and here I bide, while God gives me strength to lift a\nsword.\"\n\n\"And so say I!\" shouted Sir Oliver, throwing his mace high into the air\nand catching it again by the handle.\n\n\"To your arms, men!\" roared Sir Nigel. \"Shoot while you may, and then\nout sword, and let us live or die together!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII. HOW THE WHITE COMPANY CAME TO BE DISBANDED.\n\n\nThen up rose from the hill in the rugged Cantabrian valley a sound such\nas had not been heard in those parts before, nor was again, until\nthe streams which rippled amid the rocks had been frozen by over four\nhundred winters and thawed by as many returning springs. Deep and full\nand strong it thundered down the ravine, the fierce battle-call of a\nwarrior race, the last stern welcome to whoso should join with them in\nthat world-old game where the stake is death. Thrice it swelled forth\nand thrice it sank away, echoing and reverberating amidst the crags.\nThen, with set faces, the Company rose up among the storm of stones,\nand looked down upon the thousands who sped swiftly up the slope against\nthem. Horse and spear had been set aside, but on foot, with sword and\nbattle-axe, their broad shields slung in front of them, the chivalry of\nSpain rushed to the attack.\n\nAnd now arose a struggle so fell, so long, so evenly sustained,\nthat even now the memory of it is handed down amongst the Cantabrian\nmountaineers and the ill-omened knoll is still pointed out by fathers\nto their children as the \"Altura de los Inglesos,\" where the men from\nacross the sea fought the great fight with the knights of the south. The\nlast arrow was quickly shot, nor could the slingers hurl their stones,\nso close were friend and foe. From side to side stretched the thin line\nof the English, lightly armed and quick-footed, while against it stormed\nand raged the pressing throng of fiery Spaniards and of gallant Bretons.\nThe clink of crossing sword-blades, the dull thudding of heavy blows,\nthe panting and gasping of weary and wounded men, all rose together in\na wild, long-drawn note, which swelled upwards to the ears of the\nwondering peasants who looked down from the edges of the cliffs upon the\nswaying turmoil of the battle beneath them. Back and forward reeled the\nleopard banner, now borne up the slope by the rush and weight of the\nonslaught, now pushing downwards again as Sir Nigel, Burley, and Black\nSimon with their veteran men-at arms, flung themselves madly into the\nfray. Alleyne, at his lord's right hand, found himself swept hither and\nthither in the desperate struggle, exchanging savage thrusts one instant\nwith a Spanish cavalier, and the next torn away by the whirl of men and\ndashed up against some new antagonist. To the right Sir Oliver, Aylward,\nHordle John, and the bowmen of the Company fought furiously against the\nmonkish Knights of Santiago, who were led up the hill by their prior--a\ngreat, deep-chested man, who wore a brown monastic habit over his suit\nof mail. Three archers he slew in three giant strokes, but Sir Oliver\nflung his arms round him, and the two, staggering and straining, reeled\nbackwards and fell, locked in each other's grasp, over the edge of the\nsteep cliff which flanked the hill. In vain his knights stormed and\nraved against the thin line which barred their path: the sword of\nAylward and the great axe of John gleamed in the forefront of the battle\nand huge jagged pieces of rock, hurled by the strong arms of the bowmen,\ncrashed and hurtled amid their ranks. Slowly they gave back down the\nhill, the archers still hanging upon their skirts, with a long litter of\nwrithing and twisted figures to mark the course which they had taken. At\nthe same instant the Welshmen upon the left, led on by the Scotch earl,\nhad charged out from among the rocks which sheltered them, and by the\nfury of their outfall had driven the Spaniards in front of them in\nheadlong flight down the hill. In the centre only things seemed to be\ngoing ill with the defenders. Black Simon was down--dying, as he would\nwish to have died, like a grim old wolf in its lair with a ring of his\nslain around him. Twice Sir Nigel had been overborne, and twice Alleyne\nhad fought over him until he had staggered to his feet once more.\nBurley lay senseless, stunned by a blow from a mace, and half of the\nmen-at-arms lay littered upon the ground around him. Sir Nigel's shield\nwas broken, his crest shorn, his armor cut and smashed, and the vizor\ntorn from his helmet; yet he sprang hither and thither with light\nfoot and ready hand, engaging two Bretons and a Spaniard at the same\ninstant--thrusting, stooping, dashing in, springing out--while Alleyne\nstill fought by his side, stemming with a handful of men the fierce tide\nwhich surged up against them. Yet it would have fared ill with them\nhad not the archers from either side closed in upon the flanks of the\nattackers, and pressed them very slowly and foot by foot down the long\nslope, until they were on the plain once more, where their fellows were\nalready rallying for a fresh assault.\n\nBut terrible indeed was the cost at which the last had been repelled.\nOf the three hundred and seventy men who had held the crest, one hundred\nand seventy-two were left standing, many of whom were sorely wounded and\nweak from loss of blood. Sir Oliver Buttesthorn, Sir Richard Causton,\nSir Simon Burley, Black Simon, Johnston, a hundred and fifty archers,\nand forty-seven men-at-arms had fallen, while the pitiless hail of\nstones was already whizzing and piping once more about their ears,\nthreatening every instant to further reduce their numbers.\n\nSir Nigel looked about him at his shattered ranks, and his face flushed\nwith a soldier's pride.\n\n\"By St. Paul!\" he cried, \"I have fought in many a little bickering, but\nnever one that I would be more loth to have missed than this. But you\nare wounded, Alleyne?\"\n\n\"It is nought,\" answered his squire, stanching the blood which dripped\nfrom a sword-cut across his forehead.\n\n\"These gentlemen of Spain seem to be most courteous and worthy people. I\nsee that they are already forming to continue this debate with us. Form\nup the bowmen two deep instead of four. By my faith! some very brave men\nhave gone from among us. Aylward, you are a trusty soldier, for all\nthat your shoulder has never felt accolade, nor your heels worn the gold\nspurs. Do you take charge of the right; I will hold the centre, and you,\nmy Lord of Angus, the left.\"\n\n\"Ho! for Sir Samkin Aylward!\" cried a rough voice among the archers, and\na roar of laughter greeted their new leader.\n\n\"By my hilt!\" said the old bowman, \"I never thought to lead a wing in a\nstricken field. Stand close, camarades, for, by these finger-bones! we\nmust play the man this day.\"\n\n\"Come hither, Alleyne,\" said Sir Nigel, walking back to the edge of the\ncliff which formed the rear of their position. \"And you, Norbury,\" he\ncontinued, beckoning to the squire of Sir Oliver, \"do you also come\nhere.\"\n\nThe two squires hurried across to him, and the three stood looking down\ninto the rocky ravine which lay a hundred and fifty feet beneath them.\n\n\"The prince must hear of how things are with us,\" said the knight.\n\"Another onfall we may withstand, but they are many and we are few, so\nthat the time must come when we can no longer form line across the hill.\nYet if help were brought us we might hold the crest until it comes. See\nyonder horses which stray among the rocks beneath us?\"\n\n\"I see them, my fair lord.\"\n\n\"And see yonder path which winds along the hill upon the further end of\nthe valley?\"\n\n\"I see it.\"\n\n\"Were you on those horses, and riding up yonder track, steep and rough\nas it is, I think that ye might gain the valley beyond. Then on to the\nprince, and tell him how we fare.\"\n\n\"But, my fair lord, how can we hope to reach the horses?\" asked Norbury.\n\n\"Ye cannot go round to them, for they would be upon ye ere ye could come\nto them. Think ye that ye have heart enough to clamber down this cliff?\"\n\n\"Had we but a rope.\"\n\n\"There is one here. It is but one hundred feet long, and for the rest ye\nmust trust to God and to your fingers. Can you try it, Alleyne?\"\n\n\"With all my heart, my dear lord, but how can I leave you in such a\nstrait?\"\n\n\"Nay, it is to serve me that ye go. And you, Norbury?\"\n\nThe silent squire said nothing, but he took up the rope, and, having\nexamined it, he tied one end firmly round a projecting rock. Then he\ncast off his breast-plate, thigh pieces, and greaves, while Alleyne\nfollowed his example.\n\n\"Tell Chandos, or Calverley, or Knolles, should the prince have gone\nforward,\" cried Sir Nigel. \"Now may God speed ye, for ye are brave and\nworthy men.\"\n\nIt was, indeed, a task which might make the heart of the bravest sink\nwithin him. The thin cord dangling down the face of the brown cliff\nseemed from above to reach little more than half-way down it. Beyond\nstretched the rugged rock, wet and shining, with a green tuft here and\nthere thrusting out from it, but little sign of ridge or foothold. Far\nbelow the jagged points of the boulders bristled up, dark and menacing.\nNorbury tugged thrice with all his strength upon the cord, and then\nlowered himself over the edge, while a hundred anxious faces peered over\nat him as he slowly clambered downwards to the end of the rope. Twice he\nstretched out his foot, and twice he failed to reach the point at which\nhe aimed, but even as he swung himself for a third effort a stone from\na sling buzzed like a wasp from amid the rocks and struck him full upon\nthe side of his head. His grasp relaxed, his feet slipped, and in\nan instant he was a crushed and mangled corpse upon the sharp ridges\nbeneath him.\n\n\"If I have no better fortune,\" said Alleyne, leading Sir Nigel aside. \"I\npray you, my dear lord, that you will give my humble service to the Lady\nMaude, and say to her that I was ever her true servant and most unworthy\ncavalier.\"\n\nThe old knight said no word, but he put a hand on either shoulder, and\nkissed his squire, with the tears shining in his eyes. Alleyne sprang to\nthe rope, and sliding swiftly down, soon found himself at its extremity.\nFrom above it seemed as though rope and cliff were well-nigh touching,\nbut now, when swinging a hundred feet down, the squire found that he\ncould scarce reach the face of the rock with his foot, and that it was\nas smooth as glass, with no resting-place where a mouse could stand.\nSome three feet lower, however, his eye lit upon a long jagged crack\nwhich slanted downwards, and this he must reach if he would save not\nonly his own poor life, but that of the eight-score men above him. Yet\nit were madness to spring for that narrow slit with nought but the wet,\nsmooth rock to cling to. He swung for a moment, full of thought, and\neven as he hung there another of the hellish stones sang through his\ncurls, and struck a chip from the face of the cliff. Up he clambered\na few feet, drew up the loose end after him, unslung his belt, held on\nwith knee and with elbow while he spliced the long, tough leathern belt\nto the end of the cord: then lowering himself as far as he could go, he\nswung backwards and forwards until his hand reached the crack, when he\nleft the rope and clung to the face of the cliff. Another stone struck\nhim on the side, and he heard a sound like a breaking stick, with a keen\nstabbing pain which shot through his chest. Yet it was no time now to\nthink of pain or ache. There was his lord and his eight-score comrades,\nand they must be plucked from the jaws of death. On he clambered, with\nhis hand shuffling down the long sloping crack, sometimes bearing all\nhis weight upon his arms, at others finding some small shelf or tuft\non which to rest his foot. Would he never pass over that fifty feet? He\ndared not look down and could but grope slowly onwards, his face to\nthe cliff, his fingers clutching, his feet scraping and feeling for a\nsupport. Every vein and crack and mottling of that face of rock remained\nforever stamped upon his memory. At last, however, his foot came upon\na broad resting-place and he ventured to cast a glance downwards. Thank\nGod! he had reached the highest of those fatal pinnacles upon which his\ncomrade had fallen. Quickly now he sprang from rock to rock until his\nfeet were on the ground, and he had his hand stretched out for the\nhorse's rein, when a sling-stone struck him on the head, and he dropped\nsenseless upon the ground.\n\nAn evil blow it was for Alleyne, but a worse one still for him who\nstruck it. The Spanish slinger, seeing the youth lie slain, and judging\nfrom his dress that he was no common man, rushed forward to plunder him,\nknowing well that the bowmen above him had expended their last shaft.\nHe was still three paces, however, from his victim's side when John\nupon the cliff above plucked up a huge boulder, and, poising it for\nan instant, dropped it with fatal aim upon the slinger beneath him. It\nstruck upon his shoulder, and hurled him, crushed and screaming, to the\nground, while Alleyne, recalled to his senses by these shrill cries in\nhis very ear, staggered on to his feet, and gazed wildly about him. His\neyes fell upon the horses, grazing upon the scanty pasture, and in an\ninstant all had come back to him--his mission, his comrades, the need\nfor haste. He was dizzy, sick, faint, but he must not die, and he must\nnot tarry, for his life meant many lives that day. In an instant he\nwas in his saddle and spurring down the valley. Loud rang the swift\ncharger's hoofs over rock and reef, while the fire flew from the stroke\nof iron, and the loose stones showered up behind him. But his head was\nwhirling round, the blood was gushing from his brow, his temple, his\nmouth. Ever keener and sharper was the deadly pain which shot like a\nred-hot arrow through his side. He felt that his eye was glazing, his\nsenses slipping from him, his grasp upon the reins relaxing. Then with\none mighty effort, he called up all his strength for a single minute.\nStooping down, he loosened the stirrup-straps, bound his knees tightly\nto his saddle-flaps, twisted his hands in the bridle, and then, putting\nthe gallant horse's head for the mountain path, he dashed the spurs\nin and fell forward fainting with his face buried in the coarse, black\nmane.\n\nLittle could he ever remember of that wild ride. Half conscious, but\never with the one thought beating in his mind, he goaded the horse\nonwards, rushing swiftly down steep ravines over huge boulders, along\nthe edges of black abysses. Dim memories he had of beetling cliffs, of a\ngroup of huts with wondering faces at the doors, of foaming, clattering\nwater, and of a bristle of mountain beeches. Once, ere he had ridden\nfar, he heard behind him three deep, sullen shouts, which told him that\nhis comrades had set their faces to the foe once more. Then all was\nblank, until he woke to find kindly blue English eyes peering down upon\nhim and to hear the blessed sound of his country's speech. They were but\na foraging party--a hundred archers and as many men-at-arms--but their\nleader was Sir Hugh Calverley, and he was not a man to bide idle when\ngood blows were to be had not three leagues from him. A scout was sent\nflying with a message to the camp, and Sir Hugh, with his two hundred\nmen, thundered off to the rescue. With them went Alleyne, still bound to\nhis saddle, still dripping with blood, and swooning and recovering, and\nswooning once again. On they rode, and on, until, at last, topping a\nridge, they looked down upon the fateful valley. Alas! and alas! for the\nsight that met their eyes.\n\nThere, beneath them, was the blood-bathed hill, and from the highest\npinnacle there flaunted the yellow and white banner with the lions and\nthe towers of the royal house of Castile. Up the long slope rushed ranks\nand ranks of men exultant, shouting, with waving pennons and brandished\narms. Over the whole summit were dense throngs of knights, with no enemy\nthat could be seen to face them, save only that at one corner of the\nplateau an eddy and swirl amid the crowded mass seemed to show that all\nresistance was not yet at an end. At the sight a deep groan of rage and\nof despair went up from the baffled rescuers, and, spurring on their\nhorses, they clattered down the long and winding path which led to the\nvalley beneath.\n\nBut they were too late to avenge, as they had been too late to save.\nLong ere they could gain the level ground, the Spaniards, seeing them\nriding swiftly amid the rocks, and being ignorant of their numbers, drew\noff from the captured hill, and, having secured their few prisoners,\nrode slowly in a long column, with drum-beating and cymbal-clashing, out\nof the valley. Their rear ranks were already passing out of sight ere\nthe new-comers were urging their panting, foaming horses up the slope\nwhich had been the scene of that long drawn and bloody fight.\n\nAnd a fearsome sight it was that met their eyes! Across the lower end\nlay the dense heap of men and horses where the first arrow-storm had\nburst. Above, the bodies of the dead and the dying--French, Spanish, and\nAragonese--lay thick and thicker, until they covered the whole ground\ntwo and three deep in one dreadful tangle of slaughter. Above them lay\nthe Englishmen in their lines, even as they had stood, and higher yet\nupon the plateau a wild medley of the dead of all nations, where the\nlast deadly grapple had left them. In the further corner, under the\nshadow of a great rock, there crouched seven bowmen, with great John\nin the centre of them--all wounded, weary, and in sorry case, but still\nunconquered, with their blood-stained weapons waving and their voices\nringing a welcome to their countrymen. Alleyne rode across to John,\nwhile Sir Hugh Calverley followed close behind him.\n\n\"By Saint George!\" cried Sir Hugh, \"I have never seen signs of so stern\na fight, and I am right glad that we have been in time to save you.\"\n\n\"You have saved more than us,\" said John, pointing to the banner which\nleaned against the rock behind him.\n\n\"You have done nobly,\" cried the old free companion, gazing with a\nsoldier's admiration at the huge frame and bold face of the archer. \"But\nwhy is it, my good fellow, that you sit upon this man.\"\n\n\"By the rood! I had forgot him,\" John answered, rising and dragging\nfrom under him no less a person than the Spanish caballero, Don Diego\nAlvarez. \"This man, my fair lord, means to me a new house, ten cows,\none bull--if it be but a little one--a grindstone, and I know not what\nbesides; so that I thought it well to sit upon him, lest he should take\na fancy to leave me.\"\n\n\"Tell me, John,\" cried Alleyne faintly: \"where is my dear lord, Sir\nNigel Loring?\"\n\n\"He is dead, I fear. I saw them throw his body across a horse and ride\naway with it, but I fear the life had gone from him.\"\n\n\"Now woe worth me! And where is Aylward?\"\n\n\"He sprang upon a riderless horse and rode after Sir Nigel to save him.\nI saw them throng around him, and he is either taken or slain.\"\n\n\"Blow the bugles!\" cried Sir Hugh, with a scowling brow. \"We must back\nto camp, and ere three days I trust that we may see these Spaniards\nagain. I would fain have ye all in my company.\"\n\n\"We are of the White Company, my fair lord,\" said John.\n\n\"Nay, the White Company is here disbanded,\" answered Sir Hugh solemnly,\nlooking round him at the lines of silent figures. \"Look to the brave\nsquire, for I fear that he will never see the sun rise again.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII. OF THE HOME-COMING TO HAMPSHIRE.\n\n\nIt was a bright July morning four months after that fatal fight in the\nSpanish barranca. A blue heaven stretched above, a green rolling plain\nundulated below, intersected with hedge-rows and flecked with grazing\nsheep. The sun was yet low in the heaven, and the red cows stood in the\nlong shadow of the elms, chewing the cud and gazing with great vacant\neyes at two horsemen who were spurring it down the long white road which\ndipped and curved away back to where the towers and pinnacles beneath\nthe flat-topped hill marked the old town of Winchester.\n\nOf the riders one was young, graceful, and fair, clad in plain doublet\nand hosen of blue Brussels cloth, which served to show his active and\nwell-knit figure. A flat velvet cap was drawn forward to keep the glare\nfrom his eyes, and he rode with lips compressed and anxious face, as one\nwho has much care upon his mind. Young as he was, and peaceful as\nwas his dress, the dainty golden spurs which twinkled upon his heels\nproclaimed his knighthood, while a long seam upon his brow and a\nscar upon his temple gave a manly grace to his refined and delicate\ncountenance. His comrade was a large, red-headed man upon a great black\nhorse, with a huge canvas bag slung from his saddle-bow, which jingled\nand clinked with every movement of his steed. His broad, brown face was\nlighted up by a continual smile, and he looked slowly from side to\nside with eyes which twinkled and shone with delight. Well might John\nrejoice, for was he not back in his native Hampshire, had he not Don\nDiego's five thousand crowns rasping against his knee, and above all was\nhe not himself squire now to Sir Alleyne Edricson, the young Socman of\nMinstead lately knighted by the sword of the Black Prince himself, and\nesteemed by the whole army as one of the most rising of the soldiers of\nEngland.\n\nFor the last stand of the Company had been told throughout Christendom\nwherever a brave deed of arms was loved, and honors had flowed in upon\nthe few who had survived it. For two months Alleyne had wavered betwixt\ndeath and life, with a broken rib and a shattered head; yet youth and\nstrength and a cleanly life were all upon his side, and he awoke from\nhis long delirium to find that the war was over, that the Spaniards\nand their allies had been crushed at Navaretta, and that the prince had\nhimself heard the tale of his ride for succor and had come in person to\nhis bedside to touch his shoulder with his sword and to insure that so\nbrave and true a man should die, if he could not live, within the order\nof chivalry. The instant that he could set foot to ground Alleyne had\nstarted in search of his lord, but no word could he hear of him, dead\nor alive, and he had come home now sad-hearted, in the hope of raising\nmoney upon his estates and so starting upon his quest once more. Landing\nat London, he had hurried on with a mind full of care, for he had heard\nno word from Hampshire since the short note which had announced his\nbrother's death.\n\n\"By the rood!\" cried John, looking around him exultantly, \"where have we\nseen since we left such noble cows, such fleecy sheep, grass so green,\nor a man so drunk as yonder rogue who lies in the gap of the hedge?\"\n\n\"Ah, John,\" Alleyne answered wearily, \"it is well for you, but I never\nthought that my home-coming would be so sad a one. My heart is heavy for\nmy dear lord and for Aylward, and I know not how I may break the news to\nthe Lady Mary and to the Lady Maude, if they have not yet had tidings of\nit.\"\n\nJohn gave a groan which made the horses shy. \"It is indeed a black\nbusiness,\" said he. \"But be not sad, for I shall give half these crowns\nto my old mother, and half will I add to the money which you may have,\nand so we shall buy that yellow cog wherein we sailed to Bordeaux, and\nin it we shall go forth and seek Sir Nigel.\"\n\nAlleyne smiled, but shook his head. \"Were he alive we should have had\nword of him ere now,\" said he. \"But what is this town before us?\"\n\n\"Why, it is Romsey!\" cried John. \"See the tower of the old gray church,\nand the long stretch of the nunnery. But here sits a very holy man, and\nI shall give him a crown for his prayers.\"\n\nThree large stones formed a rough cot by the roadside, and beside it,\nbasking in the sun, sat the hermit, with clay-colored face, dull eyes,\nand long withered hands. With crossed ankles and sunken head, he sat\nas though all his life had passed out of him, with the beads slipping\nslowly through his thin, yellow fingers. Behind him lay the narrow cell,\nclay-floored and damp, comfortless, profitless and sordid. Beyond it\nthere lay amid the trees the wattle-and-daub hut of a laborer, the\ndoor open, and the single room exposed to the view. The man ruddy and\nyellow-haired, stood leaning upon the spade wherewith he had been at\nwork upon the garden patch. From behind him came the ripple of a happy\nwoman's laughter, and two young urchins darted forth from the hut,\nbare-legged and towsy, while the mother, stepping out, laid her hand\nupon her husband's arm and watched the gambols of the children. The\nhermit frowned at the untoward noise which broke upon his prayers, but\nhis brow relaxed as he looked upon the broad silver piece which John\nheld out to him.\n\n\"There lies the image of our past and of our future,\" cried Alleyne, as\nthey rode on upon their way. \"Now, which is better, to till God's earth,\nto have happy faces round one's knee, and to love and be loved, or\nto sit forever moaning over one's own soul, like a mother over a sick\nbabe?\"\n\n\"I know not about that,\" said John, \"for it casts a great cloud over me\nwhen I think of such matters. But I know that my crown was well spent,\nfor the man had the look of a very holy person. As to the other, there\nwas nought holy about him that I could see, and it would be cheaper for\nme to pray for myself than to give a crown to one who spent his days in\ndigging for lettuces.\"\n\nEre Alleyne could answer there swung round the curve of the road a\nlady's carriage drawn by three horses abreast with a postilion upon\nthe outer one. Very fine and rich it was, with beams painted and gilt,\nwheels and spokes carved in strange figures, and over all an arched\ncover of red and white tapestry. Beneath its shade there sat a stout\nand elderly lady in a pink cote-hardie, leaning back among a pile of\ncushions, and plucking out her eyebrows with a small pair of silver\ntweezers. None could seem more safe and secure and at her ease than this\nlady, yet here also was a symbol of human life, for in an instant, even\nas Alleyne reined aside to let the carriage pass, a wheel flew out\nfrom among its fellows, and over it all toppled--carving, tapestry\nand gilt--in one wild heap, with the horses plunging, the postilion\nshouting, and the lady screaming from within. In an instant Alleyne and\nJohn were on foot, and had lifted her forth all in a shake with fear,\nbut little the worse for her mischance.\n\n\"Now woe worth me!\" she cried, \"and ill fall on Michael Easover of\nRomsey! for I told him that the pin was loose, and yet he must needs\ngainsay me, like the foolish daffe that he is.\"\n\n\"I trust that you have taken no hurt, my fair lady,\" said Alleyne,\nconducting her to the bank, upon which John had already placed a\ncushion.\n\n\"Nay, I have had no scath, though I have lost my silver tweezers. Now,\nlack-a-day! did God ever put breath into such a fool as Michael Easover\nof Romsey? But I am much beholden to you, gentle sirs. Soldiers ye are,\nas one may readily see. I am myself a soldier's daughter,\" she added,\ncasting a somewhat languishing glance at John, \"and my heart ever goes\nout to a brave man.\"\n\n\"We are indeed fresh from Spain,\" quoth Alleyne.\n\n\"From Spain, say you? Ah! it was an ill and sorry thing that so many\nshould throw away the lives that Heaven gave them. In sooth, it is bad\nfor those who fall, but worse for those who bide behind. I have but now\nbid farewell to one who hath lost all in this cruel war.\"\n\n\"And how that, lady?\"\n\n\"She is a young damsel of these parts, and she goes now into a nunnery.\nAlack! it is not a year since she was the fairest maid from Avon to\nItchen, and now it was more than I could abide to wait at Romsey Nunnery\nto see her put the white veil upon her face, for she was made for a wife\nand not for the cloister. Did you ever, gentle sir, hear of a body of\nmen called 'The White Company' over yonder?\"\n\n\"Surely so,\" cried both the comrades.\n\n\"Her father was the leader of it, and her lover served under him as\nsquire. News hath come that not one of the Company was left alive, and\nso, poor lamb, she hath----\"\n\n\"Lady!\" cried Alleyne, with catching breath, \"is it the Lady Maude\nLoring of whom you speak?\"\n\n\"It is, in sooth.\"\n\n\"Maude! And in a nunnery! Did, then, the thought of her father's death\nso move her?\"\n\n\"Her father!\" cried the lady, smiling. \"Nay; Maude is a good daughter,\nbut I think it was this young golden-haired squire of whom I have heard\nwho has made her turn her back upon the world.\"\n\n\"And I stand talking here!\" cried Alleyne wildly. \"Come, John, come!\"\n\nRushing to his horse, he swung himself into the saddle, and was off down\nthe road in a rolling cloud of dust as fast as his good steed could bear\nhim.\n\nGreat had been the rejoicing amid the Romsey nuns when the Lady Maude\nLoring had craved admission into their order--for was she not sole child\nand heiress of the old knight, with farms and fiefs which she could\nbring to the great nunnery? Long and earnest had been the talks of the\ngaunt lady abbess, in which she had conjured the young novice to turn\nforever from the world, and to rest her bruised heart under the broad\nand peaceful shelter of the church. And now, when all was settled, and\nwhen abbess and lady superior had had their will, it was but fitting\nthat some pomp and show should mark the glad occasion. Hence was it that\nthe good burghers of Romsey were all in the streets, that gay flags and\nflowers brightened the path from the nunnery to the church, and that a\nlong procession wound up to the old arched door leading up the bride to\nthese spiritual nuptials. There was lay-sister Agatha with the high gold\ncrucifix, and the three incense-bearers, and the two-and-twenty garbed\nin white, who cast flowers upon either side of them and sang sweetly the\nwhile. Then, with four attendants, came the novice, her drooping head\nwreathed with white blossoms, and, behind, the abbess and her council of\nolder nuns, who were already counting in their minds whether their own\nbailiff could manage the farms of Twynham, or whether a reeve would be\nneeded beneath him, to draw the utmost from these new possessions which\nthis young novice was about to bring them.\n\nBut alas! for plots and plans when love and youth and nature, and above\nall, fortune are arrayed against them. Who is this travel-stained youth\nwho dares to ride so madly through the lines of staring burghers? Why\ndoes he fling himself from his horse and stare so strangely about\nhim? See how he has rushed through the incense-bearers, thrust aside\nlay-sister Agatha, scattered the two-and-twenty damosels who sang so\nsweetly--and he stands before the novice with his hands out-stretched,\nand his face shining, and the light of love in his gray eyes. Her foot\nis on the very lintel of the church, and yet he bars the way--and she,\nshe thinks no more of the wise words and holy rede of the lady abbess,\nbut she hath given a sobbing cry and hath fallen forward with his arms\naround her drooping body and her wet cheek upon his breast. A sorry\nsight this for the gaunt abbess, an ill lesson too for the stainless\ntwo-and-twenty who have ever been taught that the way of nature is the\nway of sin. But Maude and Alleyne care little for this. A dank, cold\nair comes out from the black arch before them. Without, the sun shines\nbright and the birds are singing amid the ivy on the drooping beeches.\nTheir choice is made, and they turn away hand-in-hand, with their backs\nto the darkness and their faces to the light.\n\nVery quiet was the wedding in the old priory church at Christchurch,\nwhere Father Christopher read the service, and there were few to see\nsave the Lady Loring and John, and a dozen bowmen from the castle. The\nLady of Twynham had drooped and pined for weary months, so that her face\nwas harsher and less comely than before, yet she still hoped on, for her\nlord had come through so many dangers that she could scarce believe that\nhe might be stricken down at last. It had been her wish to start for\nSpain and to search for him, but Alleyne had persuaded her to let him\ngo in her place. There was much to look after, now that the lands of\nMinstead were joined to those of Twynham, and Alleyne had promised her\nthat if she would but bide with his wife he would never come back to\nHampshire again until he had gained some news, good or ill, of her lord\nand lover.\n\nThe yellow cog had been engaged, with Goodwin Hawtayne in command, and a\nmonth after the wedding Alleyne rode down to Bucklershard to see if she\nhad come round yet from Southampton. On the way he passed the fishing\nvillage of Pitt's Deep, and marked that a little creyer or brig was\ntacking off the land, as though about to anchor there. On his way back,\nas he rode towards the village, he saw that she had indeed anchored, and\nthat many boats were round her, bearing cargo to the shore.\n\nA bow-shot from Pitt's Deep there was an inn a little back from the\nroad, very large and wide-spread, with a great green bush hung upon a\npole from one of the upper windows. At this window he marked, as he rode\nup, that a man was seated who appeared to be craning his neck in his\ndirection. Alleyne was still looking up at him, when a woman came\nrushing from the open door of the inn, and made as though she would\nclimb a tree, looking back the while with a laughing face. Wondering\nwhat these doings might mean, Alleyne tied his horse to a tree, and\nwas walking amid the trunks towards the inn, when there shot from the\nentrance a second woman who made also for the trees. Close at her heels\ncame a burly, brown-faced man, who leaned against the door-post and\nlaughed loudly with his hand to his side, \"Ah, mes belles!\" he cried,\n\"and is it thus you treat me? Ah, mes petites! I swear by these\nfinger-bones that I would not hurt a hair of your pretty heads; but I\nhave been among the black paynim, and, by my hilt! it does me good to\nlook at your English cheeks. Come, drink a stoup of muscadine with me,\nmes anges, for my heart is warm to be among ye again.\"\n\nAt the sight of the man Alleyne had stood staring, but at the sound of\nhis voice such a thrill of joy bubbled up in his heart that he had\nto bite his lip to keep himself from shouting outright. But a deeper\npleasure yet was in store. Even as he looked, the window above was\npushed outwards, and the voice of the man whom he had seen there came\nout from it. \"Aylward,\" cried the voice, \"I have seen just now a very\nworthy person come down the road, though my eyes could scarce discern\nwhether he carried coat-armor. I pray you to wait upon him and tell him\nthat a very humble knight of England abides here, so that if he be in\nneed of advancement, or have any small vow upon his soul, or desire to\nexalt his lady, I may help him to accomplish it.\"\n\nAylward at this order came shuffling forward amid the trees, and in an\ninstant the two men were clinging in each other's arms, laughing and\nshouting and patting each other in their delight; while old Sir Nigel\ncame running with his sword, under the impression that some small\nbickering had broken out, only to embrace and be embraced himself,\nuntil all three were hoarse with their questions and outcries and\ncongratulations.\n\nOn their journey home through the woods Alleyne learnt their\nwondrous story: how, when Sir Nigel came to his senses, he with his\nfellow-captive had been hurried to the coast, and conveyed by sea to\ntheir captor's castle; how upon the way they had been taken by a Barbary\nrover, and how they exchanged their light captivity for a seat on a\ngalley bench and hard labor at the pirate's oars; how, in the port at\nBarbary, Sir Nigel had slain the Moorish captain, and had swum with\nAylward to a small coaster which they had taken, and so made their way\nto England with a rich cargo to reward them for their toils. All this\nAlleyne listened to, until the dark keep of Twynham towered above them\nin the gloaming, and they saw the red sun lying athwart the rippling\nAvon. No need to speak of the glad hearts at Twynham Castle that night,\nnor of the rich offerings from out that Moorish cargo which found their\nway to the chapel of Father Christopher.\n\nSir Nigel Loring lived for many years, full of honor and laden with\nevery blessing. He rode no more to the wars, but he found his way to\nevery jousting within thirty miles; and the Hampshire youth treasured\nit as the highest honor when a word of praise fell from him as to their\nmanagement of their horses, or their breaking of their lances. So he\nlived and so he died, the most revered and the happiest man in all his\nnative shire.\n\nFor Sir Alleyne Edricson and for his beautiful bride the future had also\nnaught but what was good. Twice he fought in France, and came back each\ntime laden with honors. A high place at court was given to him, and\nhe spent many years at Windsor under the second Richard and the fourth\nHenry--where he received the honor of the Garter, and won the name of\nbeing a brave soldier, a true-hearted gentleman, and a great lover and\npatron of every art and science which refines or ennobles life.\n\nAs to John, he took unto himself a village maid, and settled in\nLyndhurst, where his five thousand crowns made him the richest franklin\nfor many miles around. For many years he drank his ale every night at\nthe \"Pied Merlin,\" which was now kept by his friend Aylward, who had\nwedded the good widow to whom he had committed his plunder. The strong\nmen and the bowmen of the country round used to drop in there of an\nevening to wrestle a fall with John or to shoot a round with Aylward;\nbut, though a silver shilling was to be the prize of the victory, it has\nnever been reported that any man earned much money in that fashion.\nSo they lived, these men, in their own lusty, cheery fashion--rude and\nrough, but honest, kindly and true. Let us thank God if we have outgrown\ntheir vices. Let us pray to God that we may ever hold their virtues. The\nsky may darken, and the clouds may gather, and again the day may come\nwhen Britain may have sore need of her children, on whatever shore of\nthe sea they be found. Shall they not muster at her call?"