.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49283
   :PG.Title: Edgar the Ready
   :PG.Released: 2015-06-25
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: \W. \P. Shervill
   :MARCREL.ill: Charles \M. Sheldon
   :DC.Title: Edgar the Ready
              A Tale of the Third Edward's Reign
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1914
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

===============
EDGAR THE READY
===============

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      Cover art

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   .. _`"ROLAND WAS SAVAGELY ATTACKING HIM IN HIS TURN"`:

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      [Illustration: "ROLAND WAS SAVAGELY ATTACKING HIM IN HIS TURN" 
      (missing from book)]

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      Edgar the Ready

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      A Tale of the Third
      Edward's Reign

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      BY

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      \W. \P. SHERVILL

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      *Illustrated by Charles \M. Sheldon*

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      BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
      LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
      1914

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   Contents

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   CHAP.

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I.  `A Gallant Sacrifice`_
II.  `An Ordeal of the Night`_
III.  `The Castle of Wolsingham`_
IV.  `The Winning of Peter`_
V.  `The Fracas`_
VI.  `Sir John's Esquire`_
VII.  `To Guienne`_
VIII.  `The Lists of Bordeaux`_
IX.  `The Encounter with Sir Gervaise`_
X.  `News of Sir John`_
XI.  `In Pursuit`_
XII.  `Castle Ruthènes`_
XIII.  `Prisoners`_
XIV.  `A Desperate Venture`_
XV.  `Ill News at Bordeaux`_
XVI.  `A New Quest`_
XVII.  `The Opening of the Attack`_
XVIII.  `The Plight of Beatrice`_
XIX.  `The Assault`_
XX.  `The Last Hope`_
XXI.  `Through the Darkness`_
XXII.  `The Last of Ruthènes`_
XXIII.  `Sir John's Choice`_

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   Illustrations

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`"Roland was savagely attacking him in his turn"`_
(missing from book) . . . *Frontispiece*

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`"Sir Gervaise sprang towards his adversary,
thirsting to retrieve his fallen fortunes"`_

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`"A torch was thrust close to Edgar's face"`_

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`"The torch fell upon the bottom steps, revealing
the three crouching figures"`_ (missing from book)

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`"'Bah!  These walls laugh thee and thy rabble to scorn!'"`_

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`"'Come, Beatrice, I will strive yet to save thee'"`_
(missing from book)





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.. _`A Gallant Sacrifice`:

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   EDGAR THE READY

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   CHAPTER I

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   A Gallant Sacrifice

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"Now, lad, I will tell thee how it cometh that Sir
John Chartris hath sent me down into Devon to
seek thee and to bring thee back to his castle of
Wolsingham.  The road seemeth less rough and
wild, and I can tell thee all that befell with the
more comfort.  I would, though, that I could have
brought a spare horse.  To have thee riding behind
my saddle smacks of a farmer and his dame rather
than of man-at-arms and fledgeling warrior."

"No matter, Matthew," replied the soldier's
companion, a lad of some fourteen or fifteen summers,
"our road will take us along the borders of Exmoor,
and I have hopes that we may be able to snare or
capture one of the ponies that run wild thereabouts."

"Perchance.  Now, as thou hast already heard,
'twas at Sluys that thy father met his death--and
a right gallant one it was--but of the fashion of it
only rumours have reached thee.

"I must start at the beginning, and thou wilt
then understand the more thoroughly.  Know,
then, that the French fleet mustered two hundred
sail and more, many of their ships being of a size
unheard of before, while we could gather little more
than half their number.  Our ships were scraped
together from the Five Ports and anywhere along
the coast where a stray trader could be found.  But
I'll warrant thee the sailors of the Five Ports were
little loath to lend their ships for the venture, for
their rivalry with the mariners of the Norman coast
is most exceeding bitter.  When all that could be
collected had been mustered in array, our good
King Edward III filled them with his men-at-arms
and archers, and we set sail.

"Not a man of the whole company was more
eager to get to grips with the enemy than Edward;
and when we spied, over an intervening neck of
land, a forest of masts clustering in the harbour
of Sluys, he was overjoyed.  However, for all his
eagerness, he decided to anchor at sea for the
night, and 'twas in the afternoon of the following
day--the anniversary of Bannockburn, mark ye--that
we stood in to fight the foe.

"When they sighted us, the French sailed out
a mile or so to meet us, and then anchored in four
great lines across the bay and lashed their ships
firmly together.  We found it was a fourfold
floating rampart that we had to assault, but--bah!--little
enough shipman or soldier recked of that!

"Full speed we bore down on the foremost line
of ships and ground into them, our archers sending
a storm of shafts in advance that raked them
through and through.  Many of their big ships
had platforms high up filled with Genoese crossbowmen,
and loaded with stones to fling down upon
us; but our archers poured in a fire so fierce and
fast that those who survived were glad to escape
to deck as best they could.  Then came the turn
of knights and men-at-arms, and like a mountain
torrent we poured upon the decks of the Frenchmen's
ships.  The fighting was hard and fierce--the
struggle of men who had long ached to spring
at one another's throats.

"But our martial King's gallant example, and
the knightly zest of his nobles, gave an eagerness
to our men that soon forced the French, though
they fought right well, to give back, and presently
we had mastered the first line and began to burst
through upon the next.  'Twas then that----  Ah!
What have we here?"

At the sudden exclamation, and the equally
sudden reining in of the steed, the boy, who had
been entirely absorbed in his companion's narrative,
glanced quickly ahead to see the cause of
the interruption.

Two men, followed more leisurely by three
others, had sprung into the roadway from behind
a pile of rocks where they had been in hiding.
They were men of wild and savage appearance,
and bore weapons, which added not a little to their
threatening looks.  One man, whose head seemed
a sheer mass of bristling red hair and beard, out of
which his eyes gleamed like live coals, carried a
heavy club studded with iron spikes, and this he
swung to and fro as he awaited the coming of the
wayfarers.

"'Tis Red of Ordish!" whispered the lad.  "He
is known and dreaded for leagues around.  Fly for
thy life, Matthew--delay not!"

The soldier glanced eagerly to right and left.
His face fell: rocks piled in rough confusion,
half-hidden by bushes, lined every inch of the way on
either side.  It was difficult country to traverse
on foot, but for horsemen it was quite impossible.
There was still, however, the way they had come,
and half-turning his horse, the man-at-arms glanced
back along the road.  Alas, for his hopes!  Another
group of men had emerged into the roadway a few
hundred yards behind, and were moving forward
to take the travellers as in a trap!

"Ha, ha, soldier," cried Red, with a hideous
laugh, "thou seest thou art outwitted!  Fling down
thy purse and we harm thee not.  'Tis the lord
of the manor, Red of Ordish to wit, who bids thee
pay his toll."

"Give me thy purse, Matthew," cried the boy
aloud.  He then went on in an urgent whisper:
"Be quick, and I will jump down and hand it
to the robbers whilst thou dost ride slowly past
them.  They may seek more than thy purse an
they find little in it.  I like not their looks or the
tales I have heard of them."

Slowly and unwillingly the soldier complied,
and the lad flung his leg over the saddle to
dismount.  As he did so, however, with a quick
movement he slid the contents of the purse into his
hand.  His movements were half-hidden by the
soldier's back, and that there should be no chink
of money to betray him, he held the purse closely
while he secured the contents.  Then he transferred
the coins to his wallet, dropped to the
ground, and advanced towards the red robber,
purse in hand.

"We are poor wayfarers," he said in a pleading
tone, as he fumbled in the purse; "will ye not
take toll of two silver pennies and let us hie on
our journey?"

"I will take four silver pennies, my young
springald," cried Red of Ordish, striding forward
and reaching out his great hand for the purse.

The lad retreated as though frightened, and
again fumbled as though unable to find the coins
he sought.

"Yield me the purse," cried the robber, snatching
savagely at it.  "Yield it me, boy, or I will
clash out thy brains with this club."

Springing lightly out of the angry ruffian's reach,
the boy pretended to be quite scared, dropping the
purse and running after the soldier as though in
a sudden access of terror.

Ignoring the boy, the leader of the robbers and
one or two of his men made a mad rush for the
purse.  Red was first, and snatched it eagerly up;
tore it open--and saw that it was empty!  With
a snarl like a wild beast, he sprang after the
fugitive, shouting madly with inarticulate rage.

Abandoning all disguise, the lad now ran with
all his speed after the soldier, who had profited by
the preoccupation of the robbers and had made his
way safely past them.

"On, Matthew, on!" he cried breathlessly as
he sprang into the saddle behind him, and with
a shout of angry defiance, Matthew put spurs to
his horse and galloped furiously away.

The convulsed face and savage cries of Red of
Ordish, and the tumultuous shouts of his men as
they pursued madly after, flinging stones, knives,
and clubs in despairing endeavour to injure the
youth who had so neatly tricked them, receded
gradually into the distance until a turn of the road
shut them altogether out of sight and hearing.

"Why did I listen to thee, lad?" cried Matthew
presently in a tone of resentment and vexation.
"Why did I not ride at them and try to cut a way
through?  Why didst press me to yield up my
purse without a fight?  Hast so soon forgotten
that thou art destined to become an esquire and
an aspirant to knighthood?  'Tis a bad start to
a warrior's career to counsel giving way without a
fight to the first coward cut-throat we meet.  Coward
that I was to listen----"

"Stay, Matthew," interposed the lad; "run not
on so, but examine this wallet.  Perchance the
fledgeling esquire is not quite so base as thou
thinkest."

"What?" cried Matthew, taking the wallet and
thrusting in his hand.  "Did ye--why, yes, 'tis
all here--truly thou art quick and bold.  'Twas
well done, and I none the wiser.  Thou art indeed
Sir Richard Wintour's cub, and I can say nae
better."

"There was little enough in it, Matthew,"
returned the lad.  "I hope that we may have many
such adventures to while away the long journey
to my new home.  They will keep our wits from
getting rusty."

"They will indeed, lad, and I hope that Matthew
the man-at-arms may show to better advantage at
our next encounter.  Now I will continue the story
of our struggle at Sluys which the robbers
interrupted in so ugly a fashion.  We English, then,
had overcome all resistance in the first line of the
French ships and were attacking the next, when
the adventure befell that touches thee so closely.
The ships commanded by Sir John Chartris had
again closed in and grappled, and once more we
were hard at work hacking and thrusting upon the
enemy's decks.  Sir John had gained a footing
upon the poop of the ship he had boarded, and
was hewing away with right good will when, of
a sudden, a gigantic Genoese dropped down upon
his shoulders from the rigging.  Sir John was
borne to the deck, and would have been rapidly
dispatched there had not thy father, Sir Richard
Wintour, called upon one or two of us near by
and hurried to his rescue.  Our attack diverted
the attention of those surrounding Sir John, and
he was able to struggle to his feet.

"The Genoese still clung to his back, however,
and Sir John was unable to use his sword.  To
our horror, after a few moments' tottering upon
the edge, both men, still clinging desperately to
one another, pitched headlong over the side of the
ship down into the sea in the space betwixt the
prows of the grinding ships.  Seeing what was
coming, and knowing only too well that Sir John,
clad in full armour, would sink like a stone, thy
father snatched at a rope, and without a moment's
hesitation sprang after him.  So instant was he
that he did not even stay to see that the other
end of the rope was secured, and he must have
left the ship before ever Sir John had touched the
water.  'Twas a rash act, a gallant act, and it
all but failed, for the end of the rope was free, and
was just disappearing over the side when I pounced
upon it.

"The strain upon it was so heavy that I almost
followed.  Thomelin the archer, however, also
seized hold of the rope, and we two pulled and
tugged.  In a moment or two the strain eased
somewhat, and we guessed that the big Genoese
had been compelled to leave go.  Then we began
to draw in hand over hand until two heads
appeared above the surface.  They belonged to Sir
John and thy father.

"Now came the heartrending part of the whole
affair.  A slight swell was gently heaving, and
ever and anon the ships ground and clashed
together.  Knowing this, and fearing that we
might not draw up the knights before one or other
of the ships heaved inwards irresistibly, we pulled
with all our might and shouted aloud for others
to come to our aid.  But the rush of fighting men
had passed onwards, and the noise was so
prodigious that we were unheard or unheeded.  So
we bent to the work, and soon had Sir John, who
was uppermost, on a level with the decks.  We
had pulled him safe aboard, and were about to
draw up Sir Richard, when--lad, it makes me sick
to think of it--one of our own ships, falling on the
swell, moved inwards and caught him by the legs
against the ship on which we stood.  He gave a
gasp and let go his hold, but we seized him, and,
the swell passing onwards, drew him aboard.

"One glance was sufficient to tell us that his
hours were numbered.  Notwithstanding his
armour, his legs and the lower part of his body
were badly crushed.  He was still conscious,
however, and we laid him on the deck of the enemy's
ship, now all but won, and Sir John knelt over him.

"'Goodbye, Sir John!' he said faintly.  'I am
gone.  Leave me and renew the fight.'

"'Nay, Richard, I cannot leave thee thus,' cried
Sir John, weeping.  'Dear comrade, thou hast
sacrificed thy life for mine.  I will stay and do
what little I still may towards that debt.  The
battle is won without another stroke from me.'

"'I rejoice that all goes well.  If thou wilt do
aught for me, look to my boy Edgar.  His mother
died a year agone, and he is alone save for me.
Place him with thy esquires, if I ask not too much.'

"'Richard, it is done.  Right gladly will I.'

"'He will be landless, like his father, as thou
know'st, and he must carve his way with his
sword.  Let him know this.  Spoil him not.  I
think he will do well, though his mother has had
his upbringing and not I.'

"'If he is half as gallant as his father he will
need little help from me,' responded Sir John.  'Is
there naught else I can do?  Here is water Matthew
hath brought.'

"Sir Richard revived a little when he had drunk,
but very soon sank into a stupor from which he
never regained consciousness.  He seemed quite
easy in his mind concerning thee, after Sir John
had told him he would send me down into Devon
to fetch thee as soon as an opportunity offered.  He
beckoned me to him and sent thee his dear love,
and bade me conjure thee to strive thy hardest to
be a true knight, brave in battle and chivalrous
towards the weak and helpless.  More he said,
though his voice grew so faint at last that I could
not catch all his words; but he meant thee to give
all thy mind to the work of thy squirehood, to
learn right well how to bear thyself knightly, and
how to live a godly life.  Thy father, lad, thou
mayest well be proud of."

"I know, Matthew," said Edgar in a low voice.
"And I know, too, that if earnest striving of mine
can compass it, his memory will not be disgraced
by me.  It shall be my aim to live as nobly and to
die as gallantly."

"Ye say well, lad.  I hope thou wilt be as good
as thy word.  Now I will finish the story.

"Very soon we had broken through the second
line of the French ships, and as at that moment
more ships arrived under Sir Robert Morley, a
great panic fell upon the third line, and many of
their men threw themselves into the sea and there
perished miserably.  The fourth line, however, still
remained unbroken, and fought us right gallantly
until nightfall, when those that were still able to
set sail made good their escape.

"Our losses were trifling; the losses of the
French were tremendous.  We had only two ships
destroyed, while out of all the mighty French fleet
but a few stragglers escaped.  Their loss in men,
too, they say, was no less than thirty thousand
slain.  'Twill be years and years, lad, I warrant
thee, before the French will again dare to oppose
us on the ocean.  We are now masters of the sea,
and our ships can come and go as they please.
Hurrah for our martial King Edward!"

"Hurrah, indeed!" cried Edgar, catching
something of his enthusiasm.  "But how came our men
to gain so great a victory over the French?  Did
they not fight well?"

"Aye, they fought well enough, but they were
outgeneralled.  They had two leaders while we
had one.  And more--though I am a man-at-arms,
and think most of my sort, yet can I give a meed
of praise where 'tis due--'twas our archers did
much to win the day.  Aye, our bowmen gave the
French a rude awakening--one, too, that will be
repeated as roughly yet many a day.  Our men
shot so hard and fast that the air was streaked with
shafts, and Frenchmen and Genoese fell dead on
every hand.  Even the knights were hard put to it
to face so pitiless a hail.  I mind me old Thomelin
of Pontefract, one of the most famous of our
marksmen, said to me as we passed a ship in the first
line, where the battle still raged: 'See yon knight
in golden armour, Matthew?'

"'Aye,' said I.

"'Watch him well.'

"He drew his bow to the feather and held it
motionless for a moment or two.  The knight was
opposing a party of English who were pouring
along the deck of his ship.  He swung his axe
back and up, and Thomelin's bow twanged.  The
knight's nearest armpit sprouted feathers, his axe
fell with a clang, and he rattled down after it.
'Twas thus that our archers taught even knights
in full armour to fear them."

"But are not crossbowmen equally to be feared?"
cried Edgar.  "I have heard that their heavy bolts
can crash through the armour itself."

"Mayhap; but when they have English bowmen
to fight against they have little chance to show
their powers.  Ere ever they can loose a bolt a
cloth-yard shaft hath laid them low.  Our archers
laugh at crossbowmen--and with good reason."

"What befell after the battle, Matthew?"

"We landed, and Edward led us to the city of
Tournay.  He drew his allies to his standard, and
it was with a hundred thousand men that he
commenced the siege.  All goeth well so far, but Sir
John sent me after thee before we had long
encamped before its walls.  And here I am, Master
Edgar."

"Aye, good Matthew," replied Edgar, who appeared
to be slightly ill at ease, and had turned in
his saddle two or three times during the latter part
of the soldier's narrative.  "Now, wilt thou rein
in thy steed for a moment so that we may listen?
Several times I have fancied I heard the sound of
horses' hoofs dully in the distance."

"What of that, lad?  Red of Ordish and his
band had nae horses."

"None that we could see.  But in some of the
tales I have heard both Red and his band were
mounted.  Hearken now!"

Dim and distant, but unmistakable, sounded the
thud of horses' hoofs.

"Quick, Matthew, we must leave the road and
hide.  Our horse, carrying a double burden, must
soon be overtaken.  Dismount and lead thy steed
in amongst those rocks and bushes and, if thou
canst, compel it to lie down."

Without demur Matthew obeyed his young
charge's orders, possibly because he could think
of no better line of action.  In a minute or two
horse and riders were well hidden behind a tangle
of rocks and bushes a dozen yards from the edge
of the roadway.  The clatter of horses' hoofs was
now very close, and in a few moments a body of
wild-looking horsemen burst into view round a turn
of the road.

"'Tis Red," muttered the lad at his first glimpse
of the foremost man, as he shrank back yet more
closely under cover.

The horsemen clattered noisily by and vanished
as quickly as they had come.  For the time, at any
rate, the fugitives were safe.

"What now, lad?" grumbled Matthew, as he
began to realize their sorry plight.  "We cannot
take to the road again, I trow."

"Nay; we must, I fear, clamber on as best we
can across these rocks.  See yon hill?  The country
there is clearer, so mayhap if we struggle on a little
we shall find it open out before us."

For an hour the soldier and his companion
scrambled along among the rocks, leading the
horse between them.  Then the way began to get
easier until, at the end of some hours, they found
themselves in fairly open country.  The travelling
had been very exhausting, and, well pleased to be
quit of it, they mounted again and cantered gaily
off until they reached cultivated land, and could
see in the distance the lights of a dwelling.  On
a closer inspection this proved to be a large and
straggling farmhouse.

"Darkness falls," quoth Matthew; "I think we
will rest the night here if the good man is not
unwilling."

Edgar gladly consented, and in a minute or two
they were knocking at the farmhouse door.  After
a considerable delay and some parleying the door
was opened, and they were conducted into the
farmer's kitchen.  Here they were served with
plenty of rough but wholesome food, and were
soon doing full justice to the viands.  Under the
influence of the good cheer, and more especially of
the good man's home-brewed ale, Matthew waxed
communicative, and related to the farmer with great
gusto the incidents of their encounter with and
escape from the redoubtable Red of Ordish.

The recital seemed to disturb the farmer greatly.
He grew pale and nervous, and presently left the
room, muttering that if robbers were about it would
be well for him to see that his barns and stables
were well secured.  The action seemed so natural
an one that neither Edgar nor Matthew took any
notice, although the man had not returned when,
an hour or two later, his wife hinted that it was
time to retire for the night.  Readily enough they
agreed, and the woman led them up a flight of
crazy stairs to a low room lighted by a single small
curtain-screened window which peeped out of the
thickness of the thatch.  The room contained a
rough bed and plenty of skin rugs, and in a very
few minutes the two wayfarers had flung
themselves down and had fallen into a sound sleep.





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.. _`An Ordeal of the Night`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   An Ordeal of the Night

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It must have been well after midnight when Edgar
awoke.  What had awakened him he knew not,
but he felt somehow a sense of uneasiness for which
he vainly tried to account.  All was as still as death
within the house, save only for the regular breathing
of his companion, who lay close by his side.

For some moments Edgar lay without a
movement, listening intently and wondering what it
could be that made him feel so uneasy and even--he
could not disguise it from himself--even
fearful.  He could hear absolutely nothing, but yet
he felt a conviction steal over him that Matthew
and he were not alone in the room.  Who would
dare to enter their room so stealthily at dead of
night?  And what might be their purpose?

Softly Edgar pressed his companion in the side.
He stirred ever so slightly, and Edgar pressed
again as meaningly as he could.  He felt the
soldier start and stiffen himself as though on the
alert.

Waiting for no more, Edgar, who was light of
touch and supple as an eel, stole softly from the
bed and made for the corner of the room away
from the window.  He dreaded unspeakably that
he might come into contact with something--he
knew not what--on the way; but he reached his
coign of vantage without mishap.  Then he waited
motionless for events to develop.  Though he still
heard no sound, he felt even more convinced than
before that the room was occupied by other than
themselves--and, by the strange feeling of fear that
he could not thrust away from himself, thoroughly
as he despised it, occupied by something grim and
terrible.

Presently he heard a slight rustling, as though
Matthew were leaving his bed, and a moment later
the curtain was jerked back, admitting into the room
a stream of moonlight.

Simultaneously with the pulling of the curtain
three figures became visible to Edgar between him
and the light.  The upright figure nearest to the
window was Matthew, he had no doubt, but the
two other figures crouching low upon the floor he
could not recognize, though the glint of steel he
caught from one showed that their presence boded
ill indeed.

Silently, with a bound fierce as a tiger's, one of
the men sprang upon Matthew.  With a movement
as quick the man-at-arms avoided the blow aimed at
him and closed with his assailant.  Simultaneously
the other man stood up and swung a club up into
the air and down behind his back as he prepared
to strike down Matthew while he grappled with his foe.

With the speed of an arrow Edgar sprang
forward.  Seizing the club he gave it a quick,
wrenching pull and tore it from the man's grasp.  Then
as quickly he swung it heavily down upon the
assassin's head.  With a groan the man sank
limply to the floor.

Turning to the other combatants, Edgar saw that
Matthew was holding his assailant's right hand
with his left, and had wrenched his own hand free
and grasped his dagger.  There was a flash as the
moonlight gleamed upon the bright steel, then the
stroke fell heavily upon the ruffian's side.  But
though the blade pierced his clothing it snapped
off short against his skin!

"*Bewitched!  Bewitched!*" shrieked Matthew in
superstitious terror, as he let go his hold and fell
upon his knees.  Babbling incoherently and crossing
himself convulsively, he seemed oblivious of
his fearful danger.  Fortunately the suddenness with
which he had let go his hold sent the ruffian staggering
back into a corner, but like a wild cat he was
back again, and in another moment the knife must
have been plunged into Matthew's body had not
Edgar screamed piercingly as he dashed forward.

"*Shirt of mail*, Matthew, *shirt of mail!*"

Matthew heard and understood his meaning just
in time.  Plunging full length upon the floor, he
avoided the murderous stroke, and the man, in the
darkness, pitched over him into the wall.  Ere he
had recovered from the shock Edgar had sprung
clean upon his back.

Jabbing behind him with his knife the assassin
tried to dislodge the lad, but although he received
two or three flesh wounds, Edgar clung on
tenaciously, and, by impeding the man's arm with one
hand and gripping him by the throat with the
other, did his best to hinder him, while he called
repeatedly upon Matthew to renew the struggle.

It was some moments before Matthew could
respond.  He was still unnerved by the grim
midnight attack and what he had for the moment
taken to be the supernatural character of his
assailant.  Edgar's warning cry had enabled him to
shake off some of his paralysis, but precious
moments had slipped away before he was himself
again.  At last Edgar's cries aroused him, and he
rushed in and closed with the man, who was
endeavouring with the utmost desperation to rid
himself of the burden upon his back.  Until then the
man had fought in grim silence, but now he snarled
and champed like a wild beast.  In one of his
twists and turns he staggered close to the little
window, and for a moment the moonlight played
upon his head.  Though Edgar, from his position,
could not see his face, one glimpse of the tangled
mass of hair was sufficient.  It was red.

The ruffian fought with extraordinary fierceness
and power.  Once Matthew succeeded in possessing
himself of his knife, but almost immediately lost it,
and it was not until the man was almost strangled
that his resistance was overcome.

"Get me something wherewith to secure him,
Edgar," gasped Matthew.  "Strips of clothing--anything,
lad."

Edgar sprang to the bed and fumbled among the
rugs and skins for something that he could tear
into strips.  As he did so his ear caught a sound
outside the door that could not be mistaken.

"Quick, Matthew--to the window--flee!" he
cried, in an undertone that thrilled with desperate
urgency.  "The stairs creak beneath the tread of
a dozen stealthy feet.  'Tis Red's band--away,
away, or we are lost!"

At a single bound Matthew sprang halfway
through the window.  Another moment and he
had dropped to the ground.

In his fumbles at the bedclothes Edgar's hand
had come into contact with his own or Matthew's
sword.  The slight indefinable sound or feeling of
pressure upon the door attracted his attention, and,
like a streak, he drew the sword from its sheath.
Then, with a single thrust, he drove it several
inches through the centre of the door.

There was a screech, and the pressure instantly
ceased.  Simultaneously the silent approach changed
into a loud and angry clamour, and a rush was made
at the door, and it was kicked violently open.

But Edgar was already halfway to the window.
Flinging his naked sword through in advance, he
sprang lightly up and through, and dropped safely
down upon the ground beneath.

Matthew was awaiting him and had already
snatched up the sword, and the two, with a single
thought, rushed madly round to the front of the
farmhouse.  Their one aim was to get their horse
from the stable before the robbers were upon them.

As he rounded the side of the house, Edgar
caught a glimpse of something moving in the
shadow of some trees a dozen paces away.  He
looked again--they were horses!--and with a
whoop he called to Matthew and fled to them.
The horses were half-wild, and at the sudden
approach reared and kicked furiously.

There was no time to sooth and pacify the beasts,
for already the shouts from behind showed that
the pursuit had begun, so Edgar sprang recklessly
at the nearest horse, flung his leg over its
back, and grasped it by the mane.  Then with his
dagger he cut the rope that secured it.  The horse
reared madly and backed in amongst its fellows,
but at every opportunity Edgar cut and slashed
with his dagger at the ropes that fastened the other
horses to the trees.  Matthew had also succeeded
in mounting, and seconded his efforts until all were
freed.  Then with a yell that sent the frightened
troop clattering away into the darkness, Edgar and
Matthew dug their heels into their horses' sides
and galloped headlong after them.  In a confused
clump, horsemen and riderless horses careered over
pasture and farmland until the farmhouse and the
shouting robbers had been left far behind.

Gradually Edgar gained some sort of control
over his wild mount, which had, until then, tasked
all his energies to keep it from flinging him from
off its back.  Then he guided it to Matthew's side.

"We have covered miles, Matthew, and are safe."

"Nay, let us ride on until our steeds are
exhausted.  Mine is still as much master as I."

"Then let us ride together, and keep one of yon
frightened animals in sight.  If I can, I am going
to capture a spare steed.  'Twill do to barter and
replace the things we left behind in the robbers'
hands."

For a couple of hours longer they rode onward.
Then their horses of themselves dropped into a
walk and at last stopped altogether.  Matthew and
Edgar had kept close to two of the riderless horses,
and Edgar promptly slipped from his seat and
approached them.  They were too dead-beat to resist,
and he was able to lead them into a thick covert
close at hand.  Here, after some trouble, a light
fencing of branches hacked from the trees was
built around them, and Matthew and Edgar could
begin to think of rest.  They were almost as
dead-beat as the horses, and, without troubling to make
themselves any sort of couch, flung themselves
down amongst the bushes and slept the sleep of
utter exhaustion.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Castle of Wolsingham`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center large bold

   The Castle of Wolsingham

.. vspace:: 2

Very soon after dawn Matthew and Edgar were
astir again.  Both felt the strain of their exertions
during the preceding day and night, but neither
felt that they were safe in remaining where they
were.  They had left behind nearly all their
belongings, but in their stead they had four horses
which, they hoped, would more than counterbalance
the losses they had sustained.

Tearing up part of his clothing into strips, and
utilizing their belts, Matthew made shift to secure
the two spare horses, and, mounting again, they
rode on.  For some time they purposely kept away
from the high roads, not knowing how far the
power of Red and his band might extend.  But
when they believed that they were too far from his
haunts for there to be anything more to fear, they
took to the highway again, and made more rapid
progress.  The spare horses were sold later in the
day without difficulty, and provided a goodly sum
from which they were able to purchase fresh cloaks
and weapons, and enough being left to help them
on their way.

The journey was full of incidents, though none
was so exciting as their encounter with the dreaded
Red and his band of outlaws.  In due course they
arrived at Wolsingham, and Matthew resigned his
charge into the hands of Geoffrey Fletcher, the
Lieutenant of the Castle, in the absence of its
master, Sir John Chartris.  Geoffrey really ranked
as an esquire, but he was a man of middle age who
had failed through lack of influence and skill with
the sword to obtain the honour of knighthood.  He
possessed little ambition, however, and was well
content with his position in command of the
retainers of the castle.

After a few enquiries concerning the journey
thither, and a sympathetic and kindly reference to
his recent bereavement, Geoffrey suggested a visit
to Edgar's fellow esquires.

"They have heard that thou wert on the way to
join us, and are ready indeed to see thee.  The
story of thy father's gallant sacrifice has disposed
them and all of us greatly in thy favour.  From
the little Matthew hath told me of the adventures
of thy journey, it seemeth that our expectations are
not likely to be disappointed."

"Ye are all most kind to me," said Edgar
gratefully.  "I have already promised in my heart to
do all in my power to serve Sir John for the
memory of my father's name."

"Ye say well.  Come now and I will make thee
known to thy comrades.  They are four--Philip
Soames, Robert Duplessis, Aymery Montacute,
and Roland Mortimer.  They are all about thine
age, for the eldest esquire hath followed his master
to the wars.  Doubtless thou wilt find them more
to thy liking than they are to mine, for they are
high-spirited youths, and accustomed to be more
than a little reckless in their pranks.  But such, I
fear, is too often the wont of young men of noble
birth and wide estates."

Shaking his head with the air of a man who had
suffered much at the hands of the said esquires,
Geoffrey Fletcher opened a door and ushered
Edgar into a room where the four esquires and
some few pages were practising feats of skill and
strength, or hacking at one another with blunted
swords.

The scene was a really spirited one, and Edgar
felt a thrill of enthusiasm as he realized fully that
he was now at last to begin in earnest to learn the
trade of arms and the usages of chivalry.

"Ha!  Geoffrey, doubtless this young springald
is our new comrade, Edgar Wintour?" cried
Aymery Montacute, a slim, active-looking youth a
little older than Edgar.  "Come, we are right glad
to see him, and right happy to welcome him in our
midst."

Edgar bowed his thanks.

"He looketh keen," went on Aymery, speaking
more to Geoffrey than to Edgar; "he looketh keen,
and if I can cheer him on with a few friendly strokes
with sword and buckler, let him don some gear and
we will set to without more ado.  At last, Geoffrey,
I have succeeded in worsting Roland, and I feel so
elated I could fight the world."

"But nay, Aymery, scarcely would ye wish to
show off thy prowess so soon upon your new
comrade?  How much can he know of the sword?"

"Dissuade him not, Geoffrey," interposed Edgar
hastily.  "He meaneth not to be unfriendly, I am
sure, and I would gladly receive a lesson at his
hands.  Come, comrade Aymery, teach me also
how to beat friend Roland."

There was a general laugh at the hit at Roland
Mortimer; and that worthy, after a momentary
frown, joined in the laugh, for Edgar's smile and
tone were so frank and pleasant that anger was
impossible.

"Don these things and let us set to work," cried
Aymery; and without the loss of a moment, Edgar
drew on the leather jerkin and steel headpiece and
snatched a sword and buckler from the wall.  With
a slight shrug of his shoulders and a smile of some
amusement, Geoffrey turned on his heel and left
the room.  Though his charge was now left
entirely to the tender mercies of his new comrades, he
knew that there was no need to be anxious on his
behalf, for their welcome, though rough, was not
one whit the less sincere.

The instant Edgar threw out his sword with a
gesture of readiness, Aymery attacked with a bound
like a young deer's.  So swift was his attack that,
before Edgar quite knew where he was, his head
was singing from a hearty blow which fell full upon
his steel headpiece.  Warming to the work, he did
his best to make a smart return, and to pay Aymery
back with something to spare.  The teaching he
had received, however, was in no way equal to that
given to the esquires at Wolsingham Castle, and in
a few moments Aymery had demonstrated this so
clearly that the other's body was smarting in a
half-dozen places at once.

Good-naturedly Aymery soon proposed a halt,
and explained to Edgar wherein he had failed, and
what were the chief faults of his style of defence.

"Ye look quick and active, but make not enough
use of your powers, friend Wintour.  See how I
fought--never still, constantly advancing or
retreating.  Ye should do the same."

"I see that would be best for a light-armed
contest such as this," replied Edgar; "but seeing that
knights fight in full armour in battle, with little
room or power to advance or retreat, would it not
be best for us to learn to stand more to our ground
likewise?"

"There is some shrewdness in thy point,"
responded Aymery with a nod, "but pitched battles
are rare, whilst there are many occasions on which
a knight fights when not armed cap-à-pie.  I am
perhaps too prone to rely upon my activity;
mayhap it were better if I sometimes fought knee to
knee."

"Do you never practise in full armour?" asked
Edgar.  "I have never had the opportunity, but
again it seemeth to me that as we enter a battle
or the lists in full armour, we should make it our
chiefest aim to become quite accustomed to its
weight and hindrance, and to watching our foes
through our vizor-slits.  Why leave all that to the
day of battle, as so many seem to do?"

"Ah!  I cannot agree with thee there.  Full
armour is so irksome that we should never learn
the finer strokes of fence.  When thou hast felt the
weight of it thou wilt the better understand."

Edgar felt unconvinced, but did not care to go
on with the discussion, as his knowledge of the
subject was so slight that he felt far from sure of
his ground.  So he turned aside and watched the
efforts of some of his other comrades as they
engaged in gymnastic exercises or practised with
various weapons.  It was a sight of absorbing
interest to him, and the call to supper when it came
found him still reluctant to quit the scene.

"Come, Edgar, put off thy headpiece and jerkin
and join us at the board.  I warrant thou wilt
pronounce the cheer both good and plentiful, for Sir
John hath never stinted us of our victuals.  Wilt
accompany me?"

"Right willingly," cried Edgar, as he threw off
his gear and followed the speaker, a sturdy youth
named Robert Duplessis, into the next room, where
a long table literally groaned beneath the weight of
huge rounds of beef and other fare and big jugs of
home-brewed ale.  Whilst the supper was proceeding,
Edgar took an early opportunity of inviting
his companion to tell him something of the castle
and its inmates.

"Oh, as to the castle, thou art easily enlightened,"
cried Robert readily enough.  "'Twas built
in John's reign and, as thou hast seen, is strong
enough for anything.  It lieth not far from
St. Albans and but twenty miles from London town.
Sometimes we esquires take horse and ride into the
city on pleasure bent, and a right good time we
enjoy.  Thou shouldst make one of our party the
next time we ride thither."

"The exercises I saw just now, and the
encounters with sword and axe--are they all the
teaching ye get when Sir John is abroad?"

"Nay, nay, we should be sorry esquires were
that so.  No, twice a week Sir Percy Standish
cometh to Wolsingham to give us instruction in
the use of our weapons.  He doth it out of friendship
for Sir John, and lucky indeed are we to have
a teacher so able.  It is said, however, by some of
the pertest of our pages that his visits are less on
Sir John's account than because of an attraction
amongst his household, but I hold that the report
is baseless, seeing that Sir John's elder daughter is
but seventeen."

"I saw three ladies on the outer walls as I rode
up to the gates of the castle," said Edgar.  "Doubtless
two were Sir John's daughters?  Who was the third?"

"Oh, she is Sir John's ward, Beatrice d'Alençon.
She is only fifteen, but is heiress to wide lands in
Kent and wider lands in Guienne.  She will be
greatly in request among the needy nobles when
she cometh of age an the prophets mistake not.
Even Aymery and Roland dispute one another's
claims to wear her gage, and that is why they are
so zealous to worst one another in fence.  Asses!--when
she careth naught for either!"

Edgar smiled at the scorn with which Robert
spoke.  "At any rate," he said, "neither you nor
I are likely to dispute the damsel with the twain.
I hold such ideas to be rubbish, and far from
befitting esquires aspiring to the honour of
knighthood.  My aim at least is single, and no maiden
shall divide it."

"Ha! ha!  Edgar," laughed Robert, "I should
love to hear thee make that declaration in the lady's
hearing."

Edgar did not care to join in the laugh, and
merely shrugged his shoulders and turned the
conversation into other channels.  He was interested
beyond all else in learning the details of his
squirehood and how best he might find opportunity to
advance himself in it.  The other matters that
apparently so interested Aymery and Roland had
no charms for him.

So earnest to succeed, it did not take Edgar long
to learn his duties and to make rapid headway with
his knowledge of martial accomplishments.  The
period of the next year or two was to him a time of
continuous development.  Applying himself with
ardour to learn all that appertained to knightly
prowess, in six months he had passed several of
his comrades in skill and dexterity with arms, and
could compel even Aymery Montacute to put out
all his strength to worst him.

It was then that he gave effect to a resolve half
formed in his first talk with Aymery.  His opinion
at that time was that a knight or esquire should
practise clothed in full armour if he desired to show
himself at his best on the day of trial.  As time
went on and his knowledge increased, this opinion
deepened into a firm conviction.  His comrades,
however, as Aymery had done at the first, laughed
at the idea, and one or two suggested slyly that
perhaps he was becoming tired of the hard knocks
he was getting, now that he had worked his way
into the front rank and none thought of sparing
him.  But Edgar cared as little for their ridicule
and somewhat ungenerous suggestions as he really
did for their hard knocks, and presently appeared
at their practices clad in as full a suit of gear as he
possessed.

The natural result of the change was that his
comrades easily worsted him, and from being
almost a match for Aymery he passed down the
line to Philip Soames, who stood last in order of
prowess with the sword.  Undismayed, however,
by the fall, Edgar set himself to climb back to the
position he had lost, and to become once more the
equal of Aymery notwithstanding the armour which
clogged and weighted his every movement.

The labour was heavy and the task most irksome.
Edgar was quite determined about it, however, and
slowly, bit by bit, won his way upward.  One of
the greatest difficulties before him was that of
getting used to wearing a helmet with vizor closed,
and learning to watch his man as keenly and surely
through its narrow slits as with the vizor open.
Accomplish the task he did, however, and had the
satisfaction of knowing that the fierce shock of
battle or the exciting moments of the tourney
would find him on as familiar ground as in the
contests of the gymnasium or the tilts in the castle
courtyard.  As a result of the heavy and constant
exercise and the good fare, his frame expanded
and his muscles thickened, and from a sturdy lad
of fifteen he grew to be a stalwart youth, strong
as most grown men and as hardy as one of his
Viking forefathers.

After a couple of years of the teaching of Sir
Percy Standish, their instructor, Edgar began to
long for higher instruction, and for other
opponents than his four companions and an occasional
visitor from a neighbouring castle.  He feared that
when the time came for him to be cast into the
wider circle of a camp of war, his skill, though
it seemed considerable among his comrades at
Wolsingham, might be dwarfed into insignificance
by the higher skill of esquires from other parts of
the country.

Casting about for some means of obtaining other
and more varied instruction, he made enquiries
during one of the visits he and his comrades
sometimes paid to the city of London.  He then
ascertained that there existed two or three schools of
arms for the training, chiefly, of the sons of
merchants, but oftentimes used by knights and esquires
within the city bounds.  One of these was pointed
out to him as of especial excellence, as it was
presided over by a Picard, named Gaspard Verillac,
who was much famed for his skill with weapons.

The very next day Edgar rode into London alone
and called upon Verillac.

"I wish to gain some skill in arms," he said,
opening the conversation with his usual directness.

Gaspard gave his youthful visitor a keen glance.
"Thou hast already some skill in arms, if I mistake
not," he remarked quietly.

"But a little, I fear.  I desire to learn much more."

"Come into yon chamber.  Take sword and
engage with me for a few moments.  I shall then
know the more surely how much or how little thou
dost know."

Edgar obeyed, and, entering the chamber, eagerly
scanned the walls, which were covered with what
seemed to be the weapons of all nations.  He then
selected a sword of nearly the same length and
weight as the sharpened weapon he bore strapped
to his side.  The two fenced together for a minute,
and Edgar realized at once how widely his style
differed from that of some at least of the world
outside his own circle.  Gaspard's swordplay was
more free and open than he had been used to, and
was perhaps rather more adapted for single combat
than for pitched encounters.  The point was used
almost as much as the edge of the blade.

"Thou art an esquire and no burgher's son,"
said Gaspard as he put up his sword.

Edgar assented.

"Thy skill is already considerable and giveth
promise of vastly more.  I can make thee a knight
of rare skill and address if thou carest to become
my pupil."

"I will gladly do so," cried Edgar, who was
greatly impressed by his new instructor and by the
careless ease and power with which he fenced.

"Thou wilt not only practise with me but with
others of my pupils; and as they are of all ranks
and hie from many countries, thou wilt learn to be
at home with whomsoever the tide of war may bring
thee into conflict.  Come now, and I will take thee
into the School of Arms."

When, some two hours later, Edgar rode back
to Wolsingham Castle, he felt well satisfied with
the step he had taken.  The prospect of adding
to his prowess with the sword under the guidance
of Gaspard Verillac seemed bright indeed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Winning of Peter`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center large bold

   The Winning of Peter

.. vspace:: 2

Regularly twice a week Edgar rode into London
and waged strenuous warfare with Gaspard's most
promising pupils.  So earnest was his purpose and
so able the tuition that he made rapid progress,
and presently, as he grew in strength and stature,
Gaspard was hard put to it to find pupils either
ready or able to oppose him.

Indeed, Gaspard soon learned to turn the visits
of the young esquire to good account.  Oftentimes
knights, and even nobles, desirous of obtaining a
little private practice before setting out for the
wars, were attracted to the school by the reputation
of its founder; and on these occasions, instead of
wielding the sword himself, Gaspard preferred to
call Edgar in and set his pupil to work, contenting
himself with administering instruction and reproof
as the combat proceeded.  To being made use of in
this manner Edgar raised not the smallest
objection.  The heavier and the more desperate the
encounter, the greater, he felt, was his chance of
onward progress.

It was some twelve months after his visit to
Gaspard's school that an adventure befell which
influenced considerably Edgar's after career.  It had
been his habit, when he had stayed unusually late,
to take a short cut to the open country through the
poorer quarter at the eastward end of the city.  The
denizens of its narrow alleys and filthy courts were
indeed a fierce and lawless crew, but Edgar, in the
reliance born of his hard-won prowess with the
sword, cared not one straw whether or no his way
might lie through the haunts even of criminals
and desperadoes.  Certain it is that they never
ventured to molest him.

But one day, as he was cantering along an alley
just wide enough to give free passage to a mounted
man, he heard, as he passed the entrance to a
narrow court, a sudden burst of piercing screams.
Turning his steed and clattering into the court,
Edgar surprised a group of rough-looking men
crowding round a lad or young man who was
being most cruelly beaten by one of their number.
The lad was thin and frail and half-starved looking,
and his assailant was a burly ruffian of the most
brutal type.  The lad's screams so worked upon
Edgar that, without a moment's hesitation, he
urged his horse right amongst the group of men,
and, by causing it to kick and plunge violently,
scattered them in all directions.  The lad's
tormentor he treated to a heavy blow with the flat of
his sword, just as he was disappearing, scowling
horribly, through an open doorway close by.

Dismounting, Edgar hastily assisted the lad to
rise, and then for the first time saw that he was a
cripple.  One of his legs was apparently somewhat
shorter than the other, and the limb itself
was partially withered.

"Come, lad, let me take thee to thy home," said
Edgar gently.  "These brutes shall molest thee no more."

"Thank you, sir," gasped the boy gratefully, as
he tried to struggle to his feet.  "But I have no
home save this court.  I fear, too, that I cannot
stand."

"Tell me which is thy house.  I will carry thee
and lay thee on thy bed."

"This is where I live when he will let me," said
the lad, indicating the house into which his
assailant had disappeared.  "But do not tarry here, sir,
or thou wilt be attacked.  Quick, I hear them
calling to one another, and if thou wouldst escape
alive, thou must go at once."

"Nay, lad, I cannot leave thee thus.  After the
rough shaking I have given them I fear the ruffians
will illtreat thee worse than before.  Come, I will
mount and carry thee out of this den before me."

Springing into the saddle, Edgar stooped and
lifted the lad, placing him in the saddle before him.
Then, sword in hand, he rode down the court
straight to the entrance, where he could see men
gathering armed with knives, clubs, and stones.
A volley of missiles sang through the air as he
approached, and, bending before the storm, Edgar
charged full into the enemy.  The men scattered as
he bore down upon them, some dodging into
doorways and others throwing themselves down flat
against the walls.  But as he passed, knives darted
out from this side and that, and it was only with
the greatest difficulty that Edgar could avoid them.
Emerging into the alley he found it thick with men
hurrying to the scene.  The whole district seemed
to have been aroused, and the instant he appeared
a howl of execration went up, followed almost
instantly by another and heavier volley of stones.

Setting spurs to his horse, Edgar again darted
full at the crowd.  The men were now too numerous
to avoid him, and a dozen were flung headlong to
the ground, whilst several more fell back with heads
ringing from blows given sharply with the flat of
the sword.  Though bleeding from several cuts
inflicted by the stones, Edgar had almost won
through to safety when suddenly, just as he was
striking at a man who had tried to hamstring his
horse on his right, a ruffian on his left, more
determined than his fellows, sprang close up and buried
a dagger in the animal's side.  The poor beast gave
a convulsive spring and then sank to the ground
where it lay writhing in agony.  As the horse
fell beneath him, Edgar took the cripple lad in his
arms.  It needed but a glance to tell him that his
horse was doomed, and his ears told him as surely
that his own life was in equal peril did he not make
good his escape without an instant's loss of time.

A closed door was by him, and he kicked it
open with one foot.  Springing in, he closed it
after him.  The sound of the shrieking horde
outside was momentarily deadened, but, as he rushed
along the passage to the back of the house, the
door flew violently open again, and a wave of
sound with a note so fierce and cruel swept in that
most men, even in those martial days, would have
been completely unnerved.

A door led from the passage into a yard at the
back of the house, and through this Edgar sped
with his burden as rapidly as he could.  The yard
was separated from the next by a low wall, and
over this he pressed, making for the door at the
back of the house opposite to him.  This door,
however, was fast, and was too strongly made to be
readily battered down; so without a moment's
hesitation Edgar sprang at the single-shuttered window
on the ground floor.  Placing the cripple lad down
for a moment, he seized a corner of the shutter
with both hands, and, exerting all his strength,
tore it bodily away.  Flinging it to the ground
with a clatter, he again lifted the cripple lad,
placed him on the sill, and leaped up after him.
Not until then did he pause to glance inside the
room, but now he saw that it contained four men,
who had evidently been drinking and playing at
cards when disturbed by the sudden wrenching of
the shutter from off its hinges.

They were rough-looking men, and stared fiercely,
albeit with some alarm, at the two figures perched
upon the window sill.

"Who are ye?" challenged one in a rough and
threatening tone.  "Speak--what want ye?"

Edgar would have retreated had there been time,
but already some of his pursuers were dropping
over the low wall behind, shouting in fierce
exultation as they saw their prey almost within their
grasp.  In another moment or two he would have
to defend himself in the rear, whilst his front was
threatened by these four men, who looked as ripe
for mischief as any of the ruffians closing in behind.
Desperate measures alone could save him.

Whispering to the cripple to cling to his back
and so free both arms, Edgar flung his legs over
the sill, sprang into the room, and dashed for the
door.  Two of the men drew their knives and
made as though to stop him, but Edgar, who still
carried his sword naked in his hand, instantly
attacked them.  Two rapid thrusts from his
practised hand and the men fell back, shrieking and
snarling, leaving him free to pass unmolested
through the door and down a passage into another
alley on the farther side.

Edgar's exertions in running and climbing,
burdened by the cripple lad, had been so great that
he felt he must at once find a refuge, even if only
a temporary one, or resign himself to selling his
life as dearly as he could.  Eagerly he glanced up
and down the alley.  At one end was a blank wall,
and at the other were a number of men, who raised
a shout the instant they caught sight of him.  In
front were what appeared to be the backs of a
number of solidly-built warehouses, and these,
Edgar felt, could and must provide his only refuge.

The lowest windows were too high to be reached,
and the doors were unusually strong, doubtless
owing to the poverty of the neighbourhood.  There
was, however, no choice open, so Edgar again put
the lad down and turned to the nearest door.

Throughout the flight the cripple lad had not
spoken once, but now, noticing perhaps how his
rescuer panted, and how their escape seemed as
far off as ever, he found his tongue.

"Leave me behind, sir.  Thou canst not escape
burdened with me.  Seek thine own safety.  What
need for both to perish?"

"I cannot leave thee, lad, once I have taken the
task upon me.  Fear not; while I still possess a
sword I will never lose hope."

As he spoke Edgar drove the blade of his sword
through the top panel of the door, tore it out, and
again and again drove it back.  Then with the hilt
he hammered the splintered woodwork inwards with
quick sharp blows until a hole gaped the full length
and breadth of the panel.

"Now, lad, thine escape at least is assured.
Come; I am going to pass thee through this
hole."  Lifting the lad, Edgar thrust him through the
cavity and lowered him gently down.  And not
one whit too soon, for the advance guard of the
men from the end of the alley and those who had
followed him through the houses was now upon
the scene.  Making a sudden rush at the nearest
of them, Edgar wounded two and momentarily
drove the rest headlong back.  Then retreating
as suddenly as he had advanced, he sprang to the
broken door and swung himself quickly through
the gap.

Inside he found himself in a dark passage, between
stacks of goods piled to the ceiling.  Followed
by the cripple, who had awaited his coming, and
who could now limp slowly along, he traversed the
passage and mounted some steps to what appeared
to be the inhabited part of the building.  In a
minute or two he came to the door of a room,
inside which he could hear the sound of laughter
and the clink of cups and platters.  Here at least
seemed hope of succour.

It was indeed high time, for the noise of axes and
hammers pounding at the outer door and the yells
of the savage mob outside reverberated threateningly
along the passage.  In a minute or two the
remnants of the door must give way and allow
them free ingress.  Already some of the cut-throats
might have ventured singly through the gap and
be stealing along in the darkness.

Opening the door without ceremony, Edgar
pressed eagerly in, followed by the lad.  The sight
which met them, fresh from the hurly-burly, seemed
strange in its dissimilarity, and almost made them
momentarily doubt the reality of what they had
gone through.  The room was comfortably
furnished and brightly lit, and at a large table in
its centre sat a merchant, his wife, and several
daughters at supper.  All rose to their feet, as with
a single impulse, as Edgar, panting and blood-streaked,
and with a naked and reddened sword in
his hand, strode impetuously in.

"Sirrah, what is this?" cried the merchant hastily.
"What dost thou in my dwelling?"

"To seek aid.  We are fugitives," panted Edgar.

"From the law?  Come not to me for succour,
but begone!"

"Nay, we flee from bands of thieves and cut-throats.
Even now they are doubtless pressing in
at thy broken door.  Summon aid, for our need is
sore."

"What--what is it thou art saying?  Bands of
cut-throats entering my house!  Thou hast led them
upon us, and we are ruined.  What defence have I
against such ruffians?"

Edgar leaned upon his sword and panted.  His
exertions had been tremendous, but a few moments'
breathing space would, he knew, do much to restore
him.

"They are stealing along the passage, sir.  I
hear them," whispered the cripple.  "They are
fierce and stubborn when once they are roused,
and fear the Justice and his men but little.  I know
them well."

"Come, sir," said Edgar, lifting himself upright.
"The cut-throats are even now stealing along yon
passage, and----"

Shrill cries of alarm from the merchant's wife
and daughters interrupted him, and turning hastily
round, Edgar saw that two or three savage-looking
figures were even now actually at the door.  The
merchant snatched a knife from the table, and,
though pale and trembling, moved towards the
door, as though prepared to defend his womenfolk
to the last.

With a sickening shock Edgar realized his
responsibility in drawing the ruffians in pursuit
of him into the home of a peaceful and innocent
merchant.  Though he was the one they sought,
it was not to be supposed for a moment that the
merchant's family would, even though he gave
himself up, remain unmolested.  Furious with himself,
and desperate to defend the innocent from the
consequences of his thoughtlessness, Edgar sprang
through the doorway upon the ruffians who were
gathering there.

His sword rose and fell with the rapidity and
unerring precision he had learned in so many
hard-fought encounters at Gaspard's school, and in the
space of a few seconds three lay wounded upon the
ground and the others were in full flight.  More
men were stealing up behind, but at the screeching
of the wounded and the headlong flight of the
remainder they too turned and hastily retreated.
For some distance Edgar followed them up, and,
by sundry thrusts at the hindmost, sent them racing
down the stairs to the passage through the
warehouse.  Here he stopped, for the way was dark,
and he could not know but that many might be
lurking among the bales, ready to spring out as
he passed by, and, by stabbing him in the back,
render themselves masters of the merchant's
dwelling.

Returning to the door of the room, Edgar
beckoned to the merchant, who was engaged in
calming the fears of his wife and daughters, to
come outside for a moment.

"Canst not fetch aid?"

"How dare I leave my wife and daughters, young
sir?  At any moment thou mayst be overcome,
leaving them at the mercy of these ruffians."

"Nay, if thou wilt give me a lighted lantern
fixed upon a short pole, I will, I promise thee, rid
thy house of these cut-throats until such time as
thou canst bring help.  But I cannot fight to
advantage in the dark."

"Thou shalt have the lanthorn.  See thou
keep'st thy promise."

The lantern was brought, and bearing it high
up with his left hand, and holding his sword in his
right, Edgar returned along the way he had come,
searching for any trace of lurking foes.  He
encountered none until he had nearly reached the
broken door, but here he found them gathered in
force, and had to make another attack.  His
determined front and darting sword, however, quickly
cowed the men, and after a very short struggle
they gave back, and, rushing for the door, fought
their way out in absolute panic.

Edgar did not trouble to follow up his advantage,
but contented himself with placing his lantern where
its light would shine upon the broken door, sitting
down himself in a shadow and resting, while he
watched and listened.

Half an hour passed away without any change.
He could tell his pursuers still lurked outside, but
not once did they dare to return to the attack.  Then
he heard cries of alarm and the sound of rapid
footsteps.  A moment or two later a face appeared at
the broken door, and he recognized the merchant.

"Is all well within?" he called breathlessly.

"All is well," cried Edgar, coming forward.

"God be praised!" cried the merchant in a voice
of deep relief.  "I have brought an officer and ten
men, and at the sight of us the vagabonds made off."

"'Tis well.  We are safe from attack now."

"Did the ruffians molest thee?"

"Nay.  And now, sir, I must make the best of
my way back to my home at Castle Wolsingham
without loss of time.  But before I go I pray thee
forgive me for the alarm I have caused thee and
the ladies of thy household.  Thou know'st 'twas
all done in the heat and extremity of the moment,
and wilt excuse my thoughtlessness."

"I cannot regret aught that has gained me the
acquaintance of one so gallant," cried the merchant
warmly.  "Come with me, for I am sure the ladies
will desire an opportunity to thank thee for
themselves."

The gratitude of the merchant and his wife and
daughters, now that their alarm had subsided, was
very great, and they united in praising Edgar for
what they termed his bravery.  But Edgar laughed
at them, and would have no such term applied to
what he called an afternoon's useful practice with
the sword.  One destined to the trade of arms, he
disclaimed banteringly, must regard such a brush
as of no more moment than the merchant's assistants
did the measuring of a bale of cloth.  But the
merchant's daughters would not be denied, and showed
their admiration of the young esquire by pressing
food and dainties upon him, and by washing and
tending the cripple lad, the unhappy cause of all
the disturbance.

An offer of the loan of a horse gave Edgar an
excuse to be gone and to escape from irksome
thanks and embarrassingly bright eyes.  So as soon
as they had finished tending the cripple lad, whose
name they soon found out to be Peter, he bade
them all goodbye, and, mounting the steed and
taking Peter up behind him, set off for
Wolsingham once more.

His strange and exciting adventure had ended
in the loss of a horse and the winning of a lad.
How the latter was to be provided for, Edgar knew
no more than he knew, when he set out in the
morning, that he would return saddled with such a
dependent.  It was all very strange, but his mind
was fully made up that he could not readily part
with a lad for whom he had risked and ventured
so much.





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.. _`The Fracas`:

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   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center large bold

   The Fracas

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It was late when Edgar reached the vicinity of
Wolsingham, and, preferring to obtain Geoffrey
Fletcher's permission before he brought Peter into
the castle, he left him for the night at the
farmhouse of one of the tenants on the Wolsingham
lands.  He then rode on to the castle, and, learning
that Geoffrey was still up, made his way to him,
and related in detail all that had befallen that
eventful afternoon.  Geoffrey was concerned at the
loss of the horse, but made little of the difficulty
of the cripple lad.  He could, he said, easily find
employment for him among the tenantry if he
found it impossible to take him into service within
the castle.  The latter would depend upon his
inspection of the lad on the morrow.  He congratulated
Edgar warmly upon coming out of so serious
a fracas with a whole skin, and strongly advised
him, if he were still bent upon continuing his
lessons with Gaspard, to choose a more public
route until such time as the affair was likely to
have been forgotten.

During the homeward journey, Edgar had learned
from Peter all that he could tell him of his life and
parents.  As he had expected, the lad's parents were
both dead--his mother but a few months since--and
he had only been allowed shelter in the house
where his parents had lived by the kindness of one
of the women of the place.  Her husband, however,
was of another mind, and, finding that the
boy could give nothing in payment, had turned
him out of the house.

Again and again he had stolen back, however,
and the man's wrath had increased beyond measure
as he found him there time after time, until
it ended in the more than usually brutal beating
which Edgar was fortunately just in time to
prevent becoming something worse.  Of relations,
Peter had none--that he knew of; and without
help, sympathy, or hope he would in all probability,
if he had survived and had remained in
those evil surroundings, have drifted imperceptibly
into evil and vicious courses.

From this Edgar's intervention had saved him,
and though as yet he did not realize all that it
meant, he was deeply grateful for the timely
succour.

On the morrow Edgar took Peter in to Geoffrey,
and then and there he was placed in charge of the
armourer, who had for some time been wanting a
boy to work his bellows.  With healthy surroundings,
good food, and fair treatment, he soon lost
much of his frail and ill-nourished appearance, and
but for his infirmity would in time have passed
muster with other youths of his rank and station.
Indeed, even his infirmity gradually lessened, until
at last his limp, though still noticeable, marred his
appearance rather than his usefulness.

The recollection of the stirring scenes they had
been through together always remained a bond of
union between Edgar and Peter the armourer's lad,
and the desire to aid and the desire to serve
remained with them even after months and years
had passed by.  If Edgar wanted someone to go
on an errand, it was Peter who was only too
delighted to go; and if Peter had ever any desire
beyond his work, it was always to Edgar that he
came for advice or permission.  If anything, the
bond between them increased with the lapse of
time, and it became a recognized thing in the
castle that Peter was the special protégé and
retainer of Edgar Wintour.

Three or four years passed without any change
of note taking place in the affairs of the castle.
Then its lord, Sir John Chartris, returned from
the wars, and an alteration was made that had a
considerable influence in the lives of more than
one of its inmates.  Sir John had previously paid
several visits to his home but had soon departed,
for he was constantly campaigning in Flanders,
the south of France, or elsewhere.  On this occasion
he returned alone, for his esquire had recently been
knighted, and had left him to take service under
another banner.

As soon as the news that the office of personal
esquire to Sir John was vacant became known, the
excitement and rivalry between Aymery Montacute,
Roland Mortimer, Robert Duplessis, Philip Soames,
and Edgar became intense.  That such a contingency
was likely soon to arise had been known for
some time, and each of them had nursed within
himself the secret hope that he might be the
fortunate one and follow his master to the wars.
Rivalry had always existed between them, but
naturally this increased tenfold at the thought that
a selection must soon be made, for Sir John had
so far steadily refused to take with him more than
one esquire.

In prowess with weapons, both on foot and on
horseback, Aymery, Roland, and Edgar were
generally considered to be about equal.  But this
estimate was based on their performances in the castle
courtyard and gymnasium, and little account, if
any, was taken of the fact that Edgar always wore
full armour, and, more even than this, wore his
vizor down in those encounters.  His comrades,
however, had become so used to meeting him in
this fashion, and made so little of it beyond a few
half good-humoured gibes at his supposed dislike
for cuts and bruises, that they overlooked the heavy
handicap under which he laboured.  Edgar, however,
had not forgotten it, and resolved that when
a trial was made to qualify one of their number for
the coveted position, he would fight unencumbered,
in the hopes of being able easily to overcome all
his opponents.

The lessons he had learned at Gaspard's, too,
would then very largely come into play for the first
time.  Several of the best strokes he had there
learnt and practised he never used at Wolsingham,
partly because he did not wish to accentuate the
rivalry that already existed by easily worsting his
comrades, and partly because he had had from the
first a vague idea that a knowledge of new modes
of attack or defence, about which they knew
nothing, might prove useful to him in the days to
come.

Several times the rivalry between him and one
or two of his comrades had led perilously near to
an open quarrel; but Edgar so far had, by the
exercise of tact and a certain amount of forbearance,
generally managed to keep the peace.  Twice,
however, he had had high words with Aymery and
Roland over the rough manner in which they had
treated Peter when sending him on their errands.
Even this had blown over, though it remained an
understood thing that if anyone wanted to annoy
Edgar it was a safe and sure plan to bully the
cripple lad.

A few weeks after Sir John's return home, it
leaked out that it was likely that he would take
part in an expedition which was being dispatched
to Guienne under the leadership of the Earl of
Derby.  Much was hoped for from this expedition,
and it seemed certain that those fortunate ones who
took part in it would be in a fair way towards
winning much renown.  It happened also that
the greater part of the lands to which Sir John's
ward, Beatrice d'Alençon, was heiress, lay not far
from the probable scene of the expedition, and
presently the further news transpired that Sir John
contemplated taking her with him, accompanied by
his elder daughter, Gertrude, with the object of
seizing an early opportunity of looking into the
condition of her estates.

As has already been explained, both Aymery
and Roland had for years past proudly worn the
gage of Beatrice, with or without her permission,
and not unnaturally this news sent them nearly
wild with the desire to follow Sir John as his
esquire.  To take part in a famous campaign
beneath her very eyes would, they felt certain,
be a sure means towards gaining her admiration.

From the moment this news leaked out their
rivalry was fanned to boiling-point, and the quarrels
between them became constant.  Only Edgar's tact
and self-control kept him from embroilment also;
for though they knew he was no rival so far as
Beatrice was concerned, for he openly scoffed at
all such notions, they both feared his swordsmanship,
which might defeat their ambitions to follow
Sir John to the wars.  All indeed that was needed
to drag him within the circle of their strife was
something which would rouse his antagonism to
the pitch at which theirs normally stood.  An
explosion would then be inevitable.  Unfortunately
this spark was presently supplied, and the unhappy
cause of the mishap was Peter, the armourer's lad.

It happened that one day Aymery had set Peter
to work to burnish up his armour, which he had
carelessly left exposed to the rain after he had been
going over it and fondly trying it on on the walls
of the keep.  Peter went to work willingly enough,
but the havoc was so great that by the time he
should have returned to the armourer it was only
half done.  Hastily completing it, in a rough-and-ready
fashion, he put it back in the esquires' chamber
and went on his way to the forge, intending to
finish the work as soon as he was again free.
Presently two or three of the pages entered the chamber,
and Aymery's armour spread out on the table was
the first object to attract their attention.  Not
knowing or caring to whom it belonged, and ripe for
any sort of mischief, they proceeded to amuse
themselves by kicking and throwing the pieces about
the room.

Tiring of the fun, the armour was left lying
where it had fallen, and remained there until
Aymery and several of the esquires entered.

"He refuses, Aymery," Roland was saying as
they entered.  "He saith that the responsibility
of looking after one esquire is enough for him, and
that the others must seek other opportunity of
winning their spurs--at the tourney, I think he meant."

"Didst press thy claims to accompany him?"
enquired Aymery sourly.

"They need no pressing," responded Roland
haughtily.  "And 'tis not *thy* claims I fear."

Aymery was about to make an angry retort when
he noticed the pieces of armour he so highly prized
lying about the floor in all parts of the room.

"Who hath flung my armour here?" he cried,
with a sudden burst of wrath.  "I will trounce
him finely--upon my sword, I swear it--whoever
the varlet may be.  Was't any of ye?" he ended
fiercely, as he glared at the shamefaced pages.

The boys looked at one another uneasily, and
then one more brazen than the rest replied coolly:

"Why dost not look after thy property, Aymery?
Where didst leave it?  Not with any of us, I'll
warrant."

"Ah, I recollect!  'Twas with the armourer's
boy I left it.  Doubtless he still thinketh 'tis only
Edgar's bidding he must do.  It seemeth I must
teach him another well-merited lesson.  Bid him
come to me at once, Maurice--be off with thee!"

The page sped off upon his errand, and the
others waited, eyeing Aymery expectantly, for they
felt that something more than the chastisement of
an unruly youth was in the wind.  At any moment
Edgar Wintour might come in, for it was nigh
upon his time, and none thought that he would
see Aymery flog Peter without interfering.  The
angry esquire spent the minute or two which
elapsed before the boy's arrival in examining the
pieces of armour strewn about the floor, and the
inspection apparently did nothing to improve his
temper.

Peter had evidently been told what was afoot,
for he went straight up to Aymery immediately
he entered.

"You want me, sir," he said quietly.

"Aye, varlet," cried Aymery, grasping him
roughly by the collar, "dost see my armour strewn
about the floor?  What dost mean by it?  I will
break every bone in thy body, dog that thou art!"
and he gave emphasis to his savage words by
shaking Peter with all his strength.

"I placed them not there," cried Peter, twisting
himself free.  "I know nothing of it."

"Know nothing of it!" cried Aymery, still more
incensed.  "The work is only half done--dost
know nothing of that?  Knave, get thee to work
at once and do it over again, or I will beat thee
so thou canst not stand."

Peter hesitated a moment, for the armourer was
busy, and was, he knew, awaiting his return with
some impatience.  Misunderstanding his reluctance
to do his behest, Aymery's wrath boiled up and
over, and, seizing the boy by the shoulders, he flung
him across the table.

"Come, Roland, aid me administer a sound
thrashing to this obstinate varlet.  He thinketh
'tis only Wintour's bidding he must do, and
hangeth back when we command."

Roland was only too ready, and grasped and
held Peter while Aymery snatched up a couple of
armour buckles and belaboured him with all his
strength.  There could be no doubt that Aymery
was almost beside himself with rage, for the
buckles tore away Peter's clothing until they
reached and began to score deeply into the bare
flesh--and still he went on.

At first the lad bore the beating in silence, but
as the buckles began to cut into his back he
commenced to scream with ever-increasing intensity.

It was in the midst of this that Edgar suddenly
entered.  The screams and the sight of Peter, face
downwards on the table and covered with blood,
smote him as a blow, and his face blanched in a
way that none had ever seen before.

"Get thee gone, Wintour," cried Aymery recklessly.
"This is well-merited punishment, and
interfere thou shalt not."

For answer, Edgar sprang at the speaker, seized
him round the waist, and flung him heavily against
the wall.  Then he turned fiercely upon Roland;
but that worthy shrank back before his pale face
and flashing eyes, and, letting go Peter, fled to the
wall and tore down a sword.

Finding himself free, Peter crawled from the
table and dragged himself into the inner room, the
door of which Edgar flung open while he faced and
kept watch upon his furious comrades.  He, too,
had snatched a sword from the wall, and he now
placed himself squarely in the doorway and waited.
The moment Aymery had recovered his balance,
he felt at his side and grasped the hilt of his sword.
But Duplessis laid firm hand upon his arm and
whispered an urgent warning, and Aymery was
not so mad but that he was able to realize the
dangerous folly of attacking Edgar with sharpened
and pointed weapon.  Abandoning his first impulse,
he followed Roland's example, and, possessing
himself of one of the blunted, pointless weapons
used in their practices, instantly attacked the
figure standing in the doorway of the room in
which the cripple lad had taken refuge, standing
with ready poise as though prepared to dispute
with all present their right to pass unchallenged.

The encounter that ensued was so reckless and
desperate that none present had seen the like before.
Aymery at first seemed too angry to trouble about
defending, and hacked at his adversary with a
fierce rapidity that gave Edgar little time for other
than parrying.  In a minute or two, however, he
managed to give Aymery so strong a thrust with
his pointless weapon against his unjerkined chest
that he was compelled to cease pressing in to close
quarters and to pay some attention to defence.

"Smite home, Aymery," cried Roland, thinking
his friend was giving back.  "Smite home, or let
me have my fling at the braggart!"

Stung into more reckless activity, Aymery sprang
again to the attack, leaving his head for the
moment unguarded.  Before his own blow had fallen,
the flat of Edgar's weapon caught him heavily upon
the side of the head, and he fell back against the
table, sick and half-fainting.  Edgar had scarcely
stepped back into position before Roland was
savagely attacking him in his turn, secure in the
possession of headpiece and jerkin, which he had
cautiously donned whilst the fight with Aymery
was proceeding.

"Once thou didst gibe at me for fearing the weight
of my comrades' blows," laughed Edgar, as their
blades ground together.  "Why then this jerkin?
Why then this headpiece?  Methinks 'tis another
that most fears the shock of blows upon skull and
body."

"Bah!" cried Roland, "if thou thinkest I care
for thy blows I will tear them off."

"The result will be the same," retorted Edgar.
"I care neither way.  Look to thy guard, or I vow
thy headpiece will help thee little."

Though fighting keenly, Edgar kept an eye upon
the room as well as upon his adversary.  Aymery,
he could see, was recovering from the blow he had
received, and in a moment might be expected to
renew the fight with temper little improved by the
sharpness of his punishment.  Others of his
comrades were whispering together, and he fancied they
meditated an attack to overcome his resistance and
put an end to the conflict.

Thinking it time to rid himself of Roland, for
Aymery had given himself a shake and grasped his
sword anew, Edgar put into effect a trick he had
learned of Gaspard some years before.  As their
swords grated together he locked his blade in the
hilt of his opponent's sword, and, with a sharp
wrench, tore the weapon from his grasp.  With a
shout of pain, for his wrist had been severely
twisted, Roland jumped swiftly back out of reach;
then, recovering from his surprise, he seized another
weapon from the wall and sprang to the attack
once more.  Aymery was now also attacking, and
the two made such an onslaught that Edgar was
compelled to fence as he had never fenced before.

Suddenly the door opened and Geoffrey Fletcher
entered, followed by a couple of men-at-arms.

"Hold!" he cried.  "Hold!  Cease this brawling,
or ye shall cool your heels in the guardroom."

But neither Aymery nor Roland paid any heed
to his words; they were too intent upon beating
down Edgar's resistance.  Roland had already
inflicted a severe blow upon his unprotected head,
and, dizzy from the effects, Edgar had retired a
pace or two into the doorway, where the two blades
could play upon him less easily.

"Men-at-arms, arrest these brawlers!" cried
Geoffrey sternly, and striding forward, followed
by the two men, he seized Roland roughly by
the shoulder and struck down his sword with his
own weapon.  One of the men-at-arms seized
Aymery, and the other approached Edgar, who
immediately flung his sword upon the floor, and,
folding his arms, looked the man in the face.

"There, Matthew!" he said, as quietly as his
heaving chest would allow, "take it--it has done
its work so far.  Then come with me and help me
to take poor Peter to his bed.  He is the innocent
cause of all this unhappy mischief."

Matthew picked up the weapon and went and
looked at Peter, who was supporting himself,
half-fainting, against the wall.  Then, recalled by the
stern voice of Geoffrey, he whispered: "I will
return and see to him, or send someone in my place."

"Men-at-arms, march the prisoners to the guard-room,
and keep them close till Sir John's pleasure
is known," commanded Geoffrey; and the esquires,
sobered by the recollection of their folly now that
the heat of the conflict was evaporating, marched
unresistingly out of the chamber down the stairs
to the guardroom adjoining the castle gates.





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.. _`Sir John's Esquire`:

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   CHAPTER VI


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   Sir John's Esquire

.. vspace:: 2

The three esquires were kept closely confined the
rest of the day and all night in a cell leading out
of the guardroom, watched over by a man-at-arms,
to see that there was no renewal of hostilities.  The
interval gave them time for quiet reflection, and
doubtless the first conclusion they came to was that
such a fracas was hardly likely to commend any
one of them to Sir John Chartris as being a
suitable candidate for the position of his personal
esquire, especially at a time when he was about to
start for Guienne and Gascony accompanied by a
portion of his household.  It was obvious that he
would wish for an esquire who possessed prudence
as well as fighting capacity, when at any time it
might be necessary to leave him in sole charge of
his affairs.

To Edgar, at any rate, the thought was torture.
Though he could scarcely see how he could have
acted otherwise--for the rescue of Peter he never
for a moment regretted--he yet felt angry with
himself that he had not somehow avoided a collision
at a time so critical in his career.  However
his comrades may have got on, he himself scarcely
slept a wink all night.

It was nearly midday when a summons came to
the prisoners that they were to prepare themselves
for an interview with Sir John.  Half an hour later
Geoffrey appeared, again accompanied by a guard of
men-at-arms, and the three esquires were marched
across the courtyard to the council chamber of Sir
John, high up in the walls of the keep.  Curious
eyes watched them pass by, for the news that there
had been a serious fracas in the esquires' quarters
had spread like wildfire through the castle.  Some
commiseration was expressed at their ill luck in the
affair happening whilst Sir John was at the castle,
and, consequently, in their having to appear
before him, for he was known to be something of
a martinet.

As they approached the door of Sir John's
chamber it opened, and a youth stepped out.  It was
Peter, the armourer's assistant.  Aymery and
Roland looked at one another gloomily.  His
presence hardly augured well for them.

The first thing the three young men noticed as
they were ushered into the room was that Sir Percy
Standish as well as Sir John Chartris was present.
Both knights were seated at a table fronting the
doorway, and Geoffrey ranged the three esquires
facing them, with a man-at-arms on either flank.
He then took a seat at Sir Percy's side.

"What am I to think of my esquires," began
Sir John in a stern, upbraiding voice, as he fixed
his steel-grey eyes upon each of the young men in
turn, "what am I to think of the example they set
to my men-at-arms and retainers when they brawl
thus amongst themselves?  How can I entrust to
them the command of soldiers when they have no
command over themselves and less knowledge of
discipline?"

"But, Sir John----" began Aymery hotly.

"Cease, boy!--I will hear no excuses.  There can
be no excuse for the men I command to fight
amongst themselves.  Had this breach of discipline
occurred in face of the enemy I would surely have
sent ye back to your homes--disgraced esquires.
Now ye shall spend the rest of the day and night
in the guard chamber, to meditate upon my words
and your own folly; and for two weeks more the
sentinel at the gate will have orders to refuse you
exit.  Dost understand?"

The three esquires murmured assent.

"Then, Geoffrey, remove the prisoners, and see
that my commands are obeyed."

The three esquires were marched back to their
cell, gloomy and cast down.  Sir John's words and
the sentence had sounded the death knell of all their
hopes of becoming Sir John's esquire and accompanying
him to the wars, and Aymery and Roland,
at least, felt with bitter certainty that it was their
own cruelty and overbearing conduct they had to
thank for it.  In their distress of mind a truce
was patched up between the three esquires, and
though Edgar could not yet forget the others'
cruelty to poor Peter, and they could not so soon
forget their heavy defeat, they tacitly agreed to
let the matter rest and to be as friendly as they
could.

At the end of the fortnight of confinement within
the precincts of the castle Sir John sent for Edgar.
Wondering what the summons might mean, coming
so close upon his disgrace, Edgar made speed
to obey.

"This quarrel of thine," began Sir John abruptly,
though in a not unkindly tone; "I have made
enquiries, and I am not disposed to make too much
of thy mischance.  Perhaps, even, I may think
that thou didst not altogether ill to break my rules
and to defend the lad.  Geoffrey hath told me how
it came about that thou didst save the lad at peril
of thine own life, and doubtless 'twould be too hard
to expect thee to hold thy peace when thy comrades
were mishandling him."

Sir John paused for a moment and looked at
him thoughtfully, and Edgar, thinking something
required of him, murmured: "Thank you, Sir John."

"But how didst come to learn that trick with the
sword that hath set thy comrades wondering?" went
on the knight in a brisker tone.  "I mean that
catch of thy weapon that tore Roland's from his
grasp?"

"'Twas learned at Gaspard's, Sir John."

"Gaspard's?  And who is Gaspard?"

"He is the founder of a school of arms in London
town to which I have been going twice in every
week.  I thought perhaps Geoffrey had told thee
that it was on the return from one of my visits to
Gaspard's that I rescued Peter."

"Ha, yes!  He did mention it, but I paid no
heed.  Didst not then feel satisfied with Sir Percy's
teaching?"

"Yes, sir; but after a time I thought that I
might learn more, and might obtain a knowledge
of more varied forms of attack and defence, did I
seek other practices."

"Thou wert right.  'Tis well not to move in too
narrow a circle.  I found that out, overlate, in my
first battle, and for the lack I paid heavily in blood
and pain.  However, I learned my lessons in time.
But how dost fare at Gaspard's?  Art put quite in
the shade?"

"He tells me," replied Edgar slowly, and flushing
slightly, "that I am his most promising pupil.
Oftentimes he asks me to have a bout with visitors
who have heard of his school and who would try
how far his instruction extends."

"Ha!  That sounds vastly to thy credit.  And
dost win these bouts or dost lose?"

"I lose sometimes," replied Edgar evasively,
wishing the knight would not press the point so far.

"I must see this Gaspard," said Sir John
reflectively.  "My sword hath been idle of late, and
'twould not come amiss to practise on his pupils
ere I join our forces in Guienne; but, ha! at any
rate I can practise on his most promising pupil.
Get thy sword, Edgar, and I will test thy prowess
for myself."

"Nay, sir, I beg thou wilt not; 'twere scarce
seemly for esquire----"

"Ho! ho!  Thou fearest to beat me?--or dost
fear to be put to the test?  Nay, 'tis not the latter;
I wrong thee there, I am sure.  Well, never mind,
lad, I have other matters to think of for the
moment.  I purpose to make thee my esquire.  What
dost think of it?"

Edgar gave a start for sheer joy.

"Think of it, Sir John?  It is all I could desire
in all the world.  I will serve thee--I do not say
well, but as well as it is in my power to do."

"There are other things than fighting and riding
to be done, Edgar.  Thou mayst have to stay
behind when I go campaigning, to look after the
ladies and to see to my interests.  For this I need
a cool head and a devoted heart.  Canst fulfil these
conditions?"

"I will try so to do, Sir John."

"Very well.  I appoint thee my esquire.  Every
morning thou wilt come to me for thy instructions.
In three weeks, if the weather favours our projects,
we set sail for Guienne, and in those three weeks
we must have furbished up our arms, selected the
men-at-arms and archers who are to accompany
us, and hied us to the coast."

Edgar's joy was so great that he could scarcely
collect his thoughts, but at last he managed to
stammer out his thanks.

"Say no more, Edgar.  Now go, and see thou
keep'st the peace with thy comrades.  They will
be sorely disappointed, but thou hast earned thy
reward and they have not.  I am glad 'tis thee,
Edgar Wintour, who wilt accompany me, for thy
father's sake as well as for thine own.  Thou
know'st what he did for me?  Well, he desired
that thou shouldst make thy way by thine own
efforts, without help from me, and so far thou hast
done so indeed.  Now go, and bear thyself
generously towards thy less fortunate comrades."

The next two weeks were weeks of delight to
Edgar.  In all that appertained to the expedition
to Guienne he became Sir John's lieutenant; and
when, some three days before the time came to
march for the coast, Sir John was called away to
London to consult with the Earl of Derby, Edgar
was left in sole charge of the contingent of twenty
men and the ladies of the household who were to
accompany them.

On the day on which it had been arranged for
the march to the coast to commence Sir John had
not returned.  Word soon arrived, however, that
he had been detained, and would make the journey
direct in the train of the Earl of Derby.  Edgar
was to set out at once with the Wolsingham
men-at-arms and ladies, and was to meet him at Dover.

Gaily the company mustered.  The men-at-arms
were all picked men, well armed, and in the best
of spirits at the prospect of the stirring times before
them.  The ladies were wild with delight at the
change from the dull round of their life, spent
mainly behind the walls of the castle.  The glitter
of weapons and the gleam of armour, the bright
dresses of the ladies and the glossy coats of the
horses, made a pretty picture against the sombre,
massive walls of the castle, and Edgar, as he slowly
convinced himself that he really was, for the time
at any rate, to command this little force, was dazzled
at his wonderful good fortune.  Looking as
unconcerned as he could, however, he bade his comrades
and Geoffrey a most cordial farewell, and then gave
the word to march.  With deafening fanfare of
trumpets the cavalcade wound round the courtyard,
under the frowning portcullis, and across the
drawbridge to the sunny countryside.  All seemed
to smile in happiness to Edgar as he rode in the
rear, his heart bounding with gladness and hope.
Could he have looked forward a few months and
become aware of the strange vicissitudes and
heart-shaking adventures he would have to face in the
sunny south of France, it may be that he would
have been less glad and a little more thoughtful.





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.. _`To Guienne`:

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   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center large bold

   To Guienne

.. vspace:: 2

"What wouldst do, Sir Edgar?" enquired Beatrice
d'Alençon in a tone of formality, but with a lurking
air of mock respect, as Edgar, in riding towards
the front of the column, passed by the steeds of the
two ladies.  "What wouldst do an we were to
disobey thy commands?  Oh, I know thou art said
to be wonderful with thy sword, but though that
may impress the men-at-arms, it is naught to us."

Edgar smiled and made as though to pass on
without speaking.

"Answer me, sir, for I have a mind to go my
own way now that we are free from Sir John and
that odious Geoffrey."

"Thou wilt not disobey," replied Edgar quietly.

"Oho!--that is soon decided.  Dost see yon hill,
Edgar Wintour?  I am tired of trotting along this
dusty lane, and have made up my mind to a gallop
across these fields to its summit.  The view is
doubtless charming.  Come, Gertrude--let us see
who will reach it first."

"Maiden, do no such thing," cried Edgar,
quickly grasping the young girl's bridle as she
turned her steed.

Quick as lightning Beatrice gave his horse a
sharp cut with her whip, and the animal plunged so
violently that Edgar involuntarily let go his hold.

With a ringing laugh of triumph, Beatrice urged
on her steed, bounded across the low bushes which
bordered the roadway, and made straight for the hill.

Stung to anger at being tricked, and still more
so at sundry sly chuckles from one or two of the
men-at-arms, Edgar gave instant chase and galloped
furiously after.  But though he did not spare his
steed, the fugitive was not overtaken until she had
reached the summit of the hill and had drawn rein
to admire the prospect.

"'Tis fine, is it not, Edgar?" enquired the young
girl, flushed and sparkling with the sharp gallop,
as she pretended to admire the prospect while
glancing furtively at the young esquire.

"I will not have it, Beatrice," cried Edgar, as he
grasped her bridle with a grip that he did not mean
to be shaken off.  "What catastrophe may I not
have to report to Sir John if thou goest on so
wilfully?"

"Release my bridle," commanded Beatrice
indignantly.  "Thou wilt make me wish that Aymery
or Roland were Sir John's esquire instead of thee,
Edgar Wintour."

"'Twould be strange if thou didst not do so
a'ready," replied Edgar calmly.  "I have no
claims to their flattering tongues or courtly ways.
But if ever a time of stress cometh mayhap thou
wilt then be the less discontented."

"Art going to lead me back to our party with
hand on my bridle?" cried Beatrice haughtily,
albeit with a hint of pleading in her voice.

"Nay, I will not so humiliate thee.  But remember,
Beatrice, ours is an expedition of war, and
not a pleasure excursion.  Obedience must needs
be given."

"Surely thou art taking thy first command
over-seriously," replied Beatrice scoffingly.  "What
need is there to exact obedience from Gertrude
and me?  We are not men-at-arms."

"This reason, Beatrice.  At our last stop I was
informed that the district was infested with robbers
and brigands, who had become much emboldened
since interest had been so centred in the war.
What then if ye had become lost and had fallen
into their hands?"

"I would that the robbers would capture thee,
Edgar Wintour," cried Beatrice quickly, as she
galloped back to Gertrude's side.

Edgar laughed, though somewhat ruefully, and
followed her example.

The rest of the journey passed without incident.
Oftentimes, however, Edgar found his energies
taxed to the utmost to keep the spirits of his young
charges within reasonable bounds.  Sometimes they
scoffed at him and sometimes defied him, but with
the aid of a half hint that if the worst came to the
worst they would have to ride behind a man-at-arms,
he managed to keep them in fair order.  It
was with a sigh of relief, so far as they were
concerned, however, that he rode into Dover town.

Sir John had arrived and was awaiting their
coming at the rendezvous agreed upon.  After the first
greetings were over, and the ladies were as
comfortably disposed of as the crowded state of the
inns would allow, he led Edgar aside.

"How went the journey hither?  Are the ladies
well and the men-at-arms of good hap?  I hope
thou didst maintain a firm discipline, Edgar."

"The ladies are well and the journey passed
without mishap.  I had no trouble with the men,
though I fear the ladies were inclined to be
somewhat unruly.  I hope thou art well also, Sir John?"

"Well enough, lad.  We embark to-morrow,
and all told the Earl of Derby will muster a force
of three thousand men.  We shall land at Bayonne,
and probably march on to Bordeaux.  That is as
much as it behoves me to tell thee of the expedition
at present.  There is, however, one other thing I
must acquaint thee of at once, as it is closely
concerned, I do greatly fear, with mine own personal
safety.  During this expedition, it is like enough
that my life will be in constant jeopardy, not from
the enemy but from one amongst my own side.
The truth is, I have an enemy, and I look to thee,
lad, to aid me to frustrate his evil designs."

"I will indeed do all I can, Sir John.  But who
is this dastard who in time of war would aim at the
life of one of his own countrymen?  Tell me his
name, I pray thee, so that I may know him and
thus be able to guard thee the more certainly."

"'Tis Sir Gervaise de Maupas.  He is unknown
to thee at present, but before we are through with
this expedition thou art likely to know him only
too well.  He is a man of evil character, unless my
judgment and that of some others are at fault, though
he well knoweth how to ingratiate himself into the
good opinion of those in authority.  He hath
already gained the ear of the earl, and that alone
bodeth ill for me.  The cause of our enmity dateth
back many years, to the time when his father was
dispossessed of his estates for treason and they
were bestowed upon my father.  He hath been
trained from childhood to consider me and mine
as his most bitter enemies, and he seemeth to have
learned his lesson well.  More than that, we have
had high words on two occasions, and once we
have met in single combat.  He was worsted, and
since then he hath lost no opportunity of revenging
himself most fully.

"I have been stabbed in the back on English
soil by a miscreant whose object was certainly not
robbery.  I was turning as he struck or I should
not be here now.  The man escaped, but I caught
a fleeting glimpse of him, and two months later I
saw talking with Sir Gervaise a man who resembled
him most uncomfortably.  Until now, fortunately
for me, I have never been in the same quarter of
the field as Sir Gervaise, but now that we are
thrown together it behoves us to keep watch and
ward--Hist!  This is he, Edgar."

Startled by the sudden change of tone, Edgar
glanced quickly in the direction in which Sir John
was looking and saw a tall and somewhat gaunt
knight sauntering easily towards them.  He was
dressed in silks in the height of fashion and made
a brave show, though the expression of his strongly
marked features seemed to Edgar to consort but ill
with his dainty attire.  As he came closer, his evil
expression intensified and became so ugly and
insolent a scowl that Edgar saw Sir John's hand steal
involuntarily to his sword hilt.  Noticing the action,
Sir Gervaise's face relaxed into a smile hardly less
forbidding than his frown, as he snarled:

"Never fear, thou shalt soon have opportunity
an thou dost desire it."

"I do desire it, De Maupas.  Thine insolence
alone merits chastisement, but besides and above
all that there is a matter between us that can never
be wiped away until thou hast bit the dust."

"Thou art right, Sir John.  The deeds of thy
grasping forbears stand between us, and one of us,
I swear, shall be humiliated before many months
are past."

"I speak of far viler things than those, things
too of more recent date--things that, could I but
prove them, would send thee hotfoot to a felon's
cell."

Sir Gervaise ground his teeth as he glanced
uneasily from Sir John to his esquire.

"Darest thou make such shameful allegations
against me openly?  Darest thou speak out boldly
to the earl, or must thou, like a baseborn coward,
hint darkly and secretly against mine honour?"

"Thou well knowest I can prove nothing, Sir
Gervaise, until I prove it on thy body.  Wilt meet
me in single combat *à outrance*?"

"I will.  And I swear to punish thee.  The earl
purposes a tourney when he doth enter Bordeaux.
Then thy chance will come unless thou hast thought
better of it.  Ha!  Ha!  Perchance when the time
cometh, Sir John Chartris may not be so eager to
meet Sir Gervaise de Maupas face to face and lance
to lance in a fight to the death?"

"Thou wilt see.  At Bordeaux I will challenge
thee publicly, and thou wilt be compelled to answer
for thy ill deeds with lance, sword, and dagger."

With a smile which seemed to Edgar one of
malicious triumph, Sir Gervaise turned on his
heel and sauntered slowly away.  Sir John looked
after him for a minute with a frowning face which
showed plainly how deeply his anger had been
stirred.  Then he turned to Edgar and said:

"I would not miss meeting Sir Gervaise for all
I possess, Edgar.  What I fear most, however, is
that he may find some pretext for avoiding a
conflict, so do thou make it public that at the earl's
tourney Sir John Chartris will issue a challenge to
Sir Gervaise de Maupas to a combat *à outrance*.
Thus only, when all are agog with expectation,
can we be sure that he will not disappoint us."

"I will see to it, Sir John.  I will make the
encounter so public that it will be hard indeed for
De Maupas to find a way out with honour."

The next day the whole of the expeditionary
force embarked, and sail was set for the south of
France.  Edgar was kept very busy, for Sir John,
who was often in attendance on the Earl of Derby,
left in his hands all the arrangements for the
accommodation of the Wolsingham ladies and
their maids on shore and afloat, the victualling of
the Wolsingham men-at-arms and their horses
during the voyage, and the responsibility of seeing
to the general comfort and wellbeing of the whole
of the party.

He carried out his many duties, however, with a
thoroughness that soon earned him the respect and
affection of all concerned, except perhaps of the
ladies, who may have missed the gallantries of
Aymery and Roland and have found Edgar's
directness not altogether to their liking.
Certainly the lady Beatrice more than once rallied him
severely upon a devotion to duty that scarce, she
said, permitted him to smile at a merry thrust.

But Edgar lightly passed the matter off, for he
was indeed far too absorbed in the coming
campaign to care to take the place of either Aymery
or Roland.  The mention of a tourney, too, had
given him much food for thought.  It seemed
possible that some place might be found for esquires
in the proceedings, and might not he as well as his
master figure in the conflicts?  Full of the idea,
and dreading lest he might be getting somewhat
out of practice with the sword--for since he had
been esquire to Sir John he had been so busy that
he had had fewer opportunities for practising than
formerly--Edgar set Peter to make enquiries and to
find out if any men-at-arms or esquires of especial
note for skill with weapons were accompanying the
expedition.

After a voyage swift and pleasant, though quite
devoid of incident, the fleet arrived at Bayonne,
where the earl's force landed and marched along
the coast to Bordeaux.  Here the army encamped,
and, having joined forces with the available troops
of the province, mustered quite a goodly array.
To Sir John's stern delight, it was not long before
the Earl of Derby proposed a tournament, with the
object of interesting the townspeople in the
campaign and of strengthening the warlike spirit of his
men in readiness for active operations.  His
proposals were received with general acclamation, and,
a date being fixed, the arrangements proceeded
with the greatest speed and enthusiasm.

From the first day of his arrival at the camp
Edgar had put into operation his scheme for
obtaining useful practice, and several old campaigners
among both the English and Gascon forces had
been induced by offers of sundry good cheer to
venture a bout with the eager esquire.  Most of
the men he found were hardly up to their
reputations, but from some he was able to glean useful
knowledge of yet more varied modes of attack and
defence.  At the same time the practices served
excellently to keep him in perfect trim and fitness.

The reward for this diligence came when it was
presently announced that the tourney would open
with a contest of esquires before the more serious
work of the day was entered upon.

The contest of honour between Sir John Chartris
and Sir Gervaise de Maupas was fixed for the
afternoon, immediately after the contest between knights
on foot.  By general consent this encounter was
regarded as the most important and interesting of
the whole tourney, partly because of the well-established
reputations of the two knights, but more
especially because the bad blood existing between
them made it certain that the encounter would be
fought out to the bitter end.

Some three days before the date fixed for the
tourney, Peter drew Edgar aside.

"I fear there is something afoot, Master Edgar,
that bodeth ill for someone."

"Oh, and what is that, Peter?"

"There have been two men of hangdog looks
haunting this end of the camp for several days.
As thou know'st, I have lived in the midst of
cutthroats and ruffians and know something of their
ways, and methinks these men are seeking an
opportunity to plunder."

"But to plunder whom?"

"Sir John, I fear.  Know'st thou if he hath
brought much money or valuables with him?"

"I have not heard of it, and if *I* know not I see
not how others can have learned it."

"Then I must be mistaken.  It is doubtless some
other knight they wish to rob, for that they are after
something of the sort I am wellnigh certain."

Suddenly Edgar recollected what Sir John had
told him of the attempt upon his life which had,
he thought, been planned by Sir Gervaise.  It
seemed improbable that De Maupas would again
make such an attempt, especially as he would so
soon have ample opportunity for revenge in the
encounter in the lists.  Still, it would be well that
no stone should be left unturned that might affect
his master's safety.

"After all, Peter, keep a close watch upon these
men.  Though their evil designs may not be
directed against us, I would still frustrate them
an we can.  Keep an eye upon them without being
thyself seen, and find out whether they have any
friends within the camp."

"I will, sir;" and Peter limped off with the air
of one setting about a task especially congenial to him.

Nothing, however, occurred in any way suspicious
until the very eve of the tournament.  By
that time everything in connection with the
arrangements had been settled, and the esquires of the
English army had been rendered wild with excitement
at the news that the proceedings would be
opened by a mêlée between seven esquires chosen
from amongst their number and a like number
selected from among their Gascon allies.

Originally this spectacular encounter had been
intended for knights, but, fearing that the victory
of either side might lead to jealousy and hinder
the harmonious working of the two branches of his
army, the Earl of Derby prohibited the engagement
in the form proposed, and substituted for it
a general mêlée in which the members of the two
competing bodies were drawn promiscuously from
amongst the knights of both nations.

The projectors of the original scheme, however,
unwilling to abandon their proposal altogether,
urged that the objections brought against it hardly
applied to a contest amongst esquires.  To this the
earl assented, and it was finally arranged that in
the esquires' mêlée the two sides should be drawn
from amongst the English and Gascon troops
respectively.  The news was received with acclamation,
and it soon became abundantly evident that,
although the contest was one for esquires only, its
unusual character had invested it with much more
than the usual interest.

On the English side some thirty of the better-known
esquires were quickly selected, and invited
to compete among themselves for the honour of
representing their nation in the coming contest.
Edgar was one of those invited to compete, and,
doing well in all his encounters, eventually found
himself one of the seven chosen representatives of
the squirehood of the English army.

Scarcely had he had time to receive the congratulations
of his friends upon his good fortune, and to
indulge in pleasant dreams of the stirring encounters
and ultimate victory that he confidently believed
awaited his side, before an event happened that
drove the whole thing from his mind almost as
completely as though it had never been even mooted.

It has already been observed that it was not until
the very eve of the tournament that Edgar had any
suspicions that aught was in any way amiss with
Sir John or his affairs.  He was in his tent at the
time, about to retire for the night somewhat earlier
than usual, in anticipation of the trying ordeal of
the morrow, when someone tapped at the canvas.

"Enter," responded Edgar.

Peter entered, and from his heaving chest and
anxious face Edgar saw at once that something
had happened.

"What is it, Peter?" he cried quickly.

"The ladies Gertrude and Beatrice have sent
me hither to enquire whether aught hath been seen
of Sir John.  He hath not yet returned, though he
was expected long since.  As thou know'st, he
always sups with them at their inn in the town
before he returns to the camp for the night."

"I know.  So he hath not yet returned?  He
went for his usual ride about the countryside this
afternoon, and, not seeing him more, I thought he
must be in the town with the ladies.  What can have
occurred to keep him?"

"Dost think those evilly-disposed men have had
aught to do with it, Master Edgar?"

The same thought had occurred to Edgar, but,
dreading it, he had tried to put it away from him.
It came back with the force of a blow when he found
that the same idea had struck Peter.

"It may be so, Peter," he replied reluctantly.
"I hope it may only be that he hath been
detained--perchance because his horse hath cast a
shoe--but I cannot help a feeling of dread lest it be that
those men have had something to do with it.  Didst
ever find out aught concerning them?"

"Nothing, save that one of them spoke one day
to Sir Gervaise de Maupas; but as he flew into a
violent rage at the man accosting him, I did not
think there could be any connection between them."

"Ah!" groaned Edgar.  "Then I fear the
worst.  I have not told thee, Peter--and heavy
is my responsibility for it--that emissaries of Sir
Gervaise did once attempt Sir John's life.  Sir
John told me in order that I might the better
watch over his safety, and right badly have I
done it!"

"But scarce could we have prevented this, Master
Edgar.  None would have thought of watching
over Sir John while he was in the saddle and fully
armed."

"Nay, but I might have warned him that
assassins were on the lurk.  But this is no time
for self-reproachings.  I must do all I can to repair
the mischief done.  Bring me a spare horse, Peter,
and tell Matthew to be in the saddle and ready
waiting for me outside the north gate of the town
in a quarter of an hour.  Late as it is, we must
scour the countryside.  Sir John may be lying
wounded in some lonely wood, or be yet defending
himself against cowardly adversaries.  Quickly,
Peter, for thy master's life!"

Peter limped away at the top of his speed, and
Edgar quickly threw off his outer clothes and put
on a light shirt of mail made of tiny links of
interlaced steel, similar to that which Sir John, as a
precaution against his enemy, usually wore when
not in armour.  The shirt of mail fitted closely,
and when his doublet was donned once more no
one would have guessed that so thorough a
protection lay hidden beneath its folds.

Quick as he was, the lad was back with his
horse as soon as he was ready, and Edgar instantly
mounted and rode off into the town of Bordeaux,
first bidding Peter set to work to find, if possible,
some trace of the suspected men.

On arriving at the inn where the ladies Gertrude
and Beatrice were staying, Edgar found them still
up, anxiously awaiting news.

"He hath not yet returned, then?" he cried, as
he saw their anxious faces.

"No.  Surely someone hath seen him?" cried
Gertrude in alarm.

"No one.  But do not distress thyself so soon.
I am going to sally out with Matthew to scour
the countryside, and if Sir John is anywhere near,
surely we shall come upon him.  Doubtless he
hath merely met with some trifling accident that
keepeth him back for a few hours."

"Yes, Gertrude," put in Beatrice, laying her
hand on her friend's arm, "thy father is too hardy
and experienced a warrior and horseman easily to
come to harm.  I will warrant he will be back ere
day dawns.  Nevertheless," she went on, turning
to Edgar, "thou hadst better make search as thou
hast purposed, Master Wintour, unless, indeed,
thou art fearful of spoiling thy chances in the
mêlée to-morrow by passing the night thus."

"I care not a fig for the mêlée, so be it I can see
Sir John back safe and sound," cried Edgar hastily,
considerably nettled at the smile which accompanied
the last remark, and, saluting, he turned on his
heel and strode from the room.  Here he paused
for a moment, and, retracing his steps, told the
ladies it would be useless for them to wait up
longer, as the gates of the city would shortly close,
and no one would be able to pass either in or out
before daybreak.

For some hours the night was moonlit, and Edgar
and Matthew, dividing the countryside between
them, scoured it for miles and miles around.  Full
of anxiety, for Edgar had communicated his fears
to the man-at-arms, they rode hard and fast, with
little regard for their own necks or the limits of the
horses they bestrode, and by the time the sky
clouded over so that further real progress was
impossible, they had become convinced that Sir John
was nowhere in the vicinity.  Returning to the
camp, Edgar called Peter to him.

"Well, Peter, didst find out aught?"

"Nay, sir.  None hath seen the two men of late,
so perchance they know naught of this matter, after
all."

"That, at least, is good news, and it may well
turn out that nothing serious hath happened to Sir
John.  Now, Peter, I am going to lie down for an
hour or two.  Rouse me at daybreak, for I must
acquaint the ladies Gertrude and Beatrice of the
poor success of my search as soon as the city gates
are open."

Peter nodded and retired, and Edgar flung himself
down just as he was, and almost instantly fell
into a deep slumber.

It was long after sunrise when he awoke, and
furious with Peter for letting him sleep so long,
he hurried to the lad's tent.

"Why did ye not call me, Peter?" he cried angrily.

"All is well, Master Edgar.  I have been into
the town, and have told the ladies that there is no
news, and that thou wert worn out with searching,
and sleeping heavily.  I have hopes that thou wilt
make thy name in the mêlée to-day; but what
chance would there be of thy doing thyself justice
after wearing thyself out riding all night long?"

Too angry to bandy words with the lad, and realizing,
too, that it was out of regard for him that he had
disobeyed his orders, Edgar strode back to his tent,
hastily washed himself, and then rode into the town.
He had no good news to tell, and the ladies could not
help but feel that something serious must be
keeping Sir John, or he would certainly have either
appeared in person or have sent someone to tell
them of his detention elsewhere.  It was for them
a time of anxiety and perplexity, and Edgar could
do little save suggest all sorts of accidents that
might have kept the knight back for a few hours.

One thing besides his master's life, however,
Edgar felt he had to consider, and that was his
honour.  With the contest of the afternoon Sir
John's honour was now closely bound up.  The
utmost publicity had been given to the affair, and
did he not appear and answer to the challenge of
Sir Gervaise de Maupas, he would be regarded on
all sides as a dishonoured knight.  Edgar felt this
most keenly, and resolved that at all costs he would
keep the secret of Sir John's disappearance from
becoming known, so that if he returned at the last
moment, as he might well do, idle tongues would
have had no cause to wag against him.

No one besides the ladies, Matthew, and Peter
knew that Sir John was missing, and all these he
swore to silence.  They were ready enough to agree,
for none could think that so experienced a warrior
as Sir John could have been overcome so easily as
to disappear and leave no trace.  In fact, Matthew
roundly declared that an hour or so before the
contest with Sir Gervaise was timed to commence
would see him back, and the others fervently hoped
that he might prove to be right.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Lists of Bordeaux`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center large bold

   The Lists of Bordeaux

.. vspace:: 2

Completely forgetting that he was one of the
seven chosen to do battle for the English esquires
against the best of their Gascon allies, Edgar spent
the little time left of the morning in making
enquiries of all who might have seen Sir John at any
point during his afternoon's ride--countrymen
coming in with carts laden with farm produce, the
men who had kept watch during the afternoon and
evening along the outer side of the camp, and any
others who might possibly have some news to tell,
however meagre.  His enquiries were quite fruitless,
however, and his fears that there might have
been foul play gradually returned to him as the
morning wore on.  At last he returned to the
camp and sent for Peter.

"Peter," he said, "I want thee now to keep
close watch to see who doth visit Sir Gervaise de
Maupas.  I begin to feel once more that he is at
the bottom of the mischief; and it hath occurred to
me that if his emissaries have waylaid Sir John
they will, if they have not done so already, come
to him to report the result of their vile plot.  Keep
watch, then, and see who the men are, and if thou
canst do so quietly, call Matthew and scruple
not to seize them on some pretext or another.
Pick a quarrel with them--anything, so long
as ye lay hands on them and keep them till I come."

Peter nodded, as though in entire approval, and
limped off upon his errand, and Edgar turned to
find Arthur Pomeroy, mounted and armed, waiting
for him with every sign of impatience a pace or two
away.

"So this is the way thou dost spend the precious
moments--gibbering with stableboys and camp
followers, Edgar Wintour," he cried in a voice of
disgust.  "'Tis but twenty minutes short of noon,
and thou not in the saddle and not a piece of thine
armour girded on.  Hast gone daft, man, or
forgotten that the onset sounds at noon?"

"I have been busy, Arthur, and could wish
that thou wouldst find some other to take my place.
Let the best of those who were tried and passed
over take the lance in my stead--each of them
was well worthy to represent our squirehood to-day."

"Tush, Edgar, talk not such nonsense!  Rather
would I hold back our whole band until thou wert
ready, though 'twere an hour.  Get on thine armour
without more ado.  Where is thy boy?"

"I have sent him upon an errand of great
import to me.  Give me a hand and I will soon be
ready."

With an angry snort Arthur set spurs to his
horse and galloped away through the camp like
a whirlwind.  In half a minute he was back, and
two lads following at top speed proclaimed that
he had not been idle.

"Come hither, varlets, and gird on this armour.
Quickly, now, unless ye wish the Frenchmen to get
the better of us."

Rapidly the pieces of armour were strapped and
buckled on until Edgar stood complete, a wall of
shining steel.

"Where is thy gage?"

"I have none."

"What?  Hast thou no damsel to watch for
thine entry into the lists?"

"Nay."

Arthur shrugged his shoulders in perplexity.
"Well, every man to his taste.  Where is now
thy horse?  Where dost stable it?"

"Straight along the lines a furlong.  Let the
youths bring the gear, and for the nonce I will
walk to it."

It was still five minutes short of noon when
Edgar mounted and, closely shepherded by Arthur
Pomeroy, who seemed to fear he might yet escape,
rode off to the competitors' enclosure adjoining the
lists.

"Thou must know," said Arthur, "that I have
agreed with the leader of the Gascon esquires that
our men shall be placed facing opponents of the
same relative powers.  'Twould be a poor spectacle
if our best were pitted against their weakest and
their strongest against our tail end; so we have,
for the first onset only, arranged that best shall
meet best, and so forth.  Thou art matched against
Gaston Dugarde."

"I know nothing of him," replied Edgar.  "Is
he weak?"

"Weak!  Thou wilt see.  We have not thrown
thee away."

Exactly how to take the reply Edgar hardly
knew, but he was too full of his great trouble and
too anxious to be through with the present
encounter to care to enquire further.  The intense
eagerness with which he had looked forward to so
thrilling a mêlée had gone, and he now only wished
it over, that he might continue his enquiries
respecting Sir John.

As they cantered into the enclosure, however, he
felt his enthusiasm revive.  No one could view the
glittering scene unmoved, and to Edgar, who had
never been to a tournament before, the scene was
full of meaning and interest.  The wide sweep of
the lists, the towering stands at the middle, the
dense masses of spectators--a large proportion of
whom were soldiers--the glitter of armour, and the
tramp of spirited chargers, all struck the fullest note
of chivalry and warriorhood.

"Come, Arthur," cried one of the English
esquires impatiently, "thou art behindhand.  Guy de
Parfrey hath marshalled his men, and awaits us."

"No matter, Stephen, since we are now seven.
Now, comrades all, wheel into line in the order
agreed upon.  Forget not the rules--I would not
that we scored by transgressing them.  Strike
home, and remember 'tis St. George for England!"

The English esquires wheeled into their places
and, headed by their captain, Arthur Pomeroy,
cantered gaily into the lists in single file
simultaneously with their adversaries.  Amidst a gay
fanfare of trumpets, the two lines of steel-clad
horsemen filed, saluting, before the Earl of Derby.
Then, without a pause, they diverged to their own
ends of the lists, each man halting his steed and
turning as the line passed his own position.  In
a very few seconds the files of prancing horsemen
became two lines of motionless figures with lances
couched, facing one another watchfully.

There was but a slight pause, and then the
marshals gave the signal for the onset.  And loud the
trumpets blared!

With a thunder of hoofs, the two walls of steel
dashed swiftly inwards, as though drawn by a
gigantic magnet, and met in the centre of the lists
with a crash that could be heard for miles.  Indeed,
men passing to and fro in the city streets and alleys
heard the noise, and stopped to question one
another as to what it portended.

Five men--two English and three Gascons--bit
the dust in that first terrific onset, and the
survivors, with few thoughts for the vanquished, rode
at one another fiercely, and with sword, lance, or
axe, whichever was most to their user's liking,
hewed and thrust at one another with heartiest
goodwill.

Edgar struck his opponent full on the shield with
the point of his lance, and, to his surprise, the
impact lifted his opponent out of the saddle and
sent him crashing backwards to the ground.  The
shock must have been great, for the unfortunate
esquire lay just where he had fallen, motionless,
and apparently senseless.  Fearing lest he might
be trampled upon in the mêlée, for the dust was
rising and the combatants could scarce see what
was under their horses' feet, Edgar slipped quickly
from his saddle, raised the fallen man, and bore him
away out of the press.

His temporary withdrawal made the two forces
again equal, but this equality was of very short
duration, for one of the Gascons, who was known
as Guilbert "Strongarm", was an esquire of great
bulk and tremendous strength, and with two
successive swings of his huge battleaxe smote two of
the English esquires so strongly that they dropped
half-fainting from their saddles.

Arthur Pomeroy, who, as captain, kept watch
over what was happening to others of his force
while fighting his own battle, saw that his side
was in immediate peril of being vanquished
offhand, and called loudly to Edgar to resume the
combat.

"Mount, Edgar!  Mount and aid us!"

Though he had not seen the deadly strokes that
had so altered the complexion of affairs, Edgar
guessed that things were going ill, and hastily
handed the stricken man to pages who hovered on
the outskirts of the fight.  His horse had followed
him, and, vaulting into the saddle, he spurred once
more into the conflict.

His re-entry was somewhat unexpected to the
Gascons, and, still possessing the lance that had
already done such good service, he could easily
have unhorsed Guilbert from the rear.  But
disdaining to defeat a foe so ingloriously, Edgar
smartly tapped his lance upon his backplate and
waited.  Guilbert and one of his comrades were
busily hacking at Arthur Pomeroy, who was
fighting desperately and wheeling his steed
continuously in his efforts to keep the twain at bay.
Astounded at the buffet from the rear, Guilbert
hastily turned and rode at Edgar, leaning over in
his saddle and swinging his great battleaxe in
readiness for a telling blow.

Dropping his lance, Edgar drew his sword and,
as Guilbert came within reach and aimed a blow
at him, turned his horse and avoided the stroke
by a hairbreadth.  The axe, meeting no resistance,
swung down nearly to the ground, drawing Guilbert
downward with it.  Simultaneously Edgar turned
in his saddle, and, reaching out, smote his adversary
so shrewdly on the wrist that he was compelled to
drop his axe.  Ere he could draw his sword with
his left hand--for his right was bruised and almost
useless--Edgar had twice gently smitten him upon
headpiece and breastplate, and, acknowledging
defeat, Guilbert rode sullenly out of the conflict.

Another man on either side had by this time
fallen, and of the fourteen men who had entered
upon the mêlée only two English and two Gascons
remained.

Arthur Pomeroy was the second survivor of the
English esquires, and in spite of the exertions he
had made, was still in good fighting trim.  Edgar
had not received a scratch, and was virtually as
fresh as when he started.  The two Gascons, on the
other hand, were both bleeding, and one appeared
to be scarce fit to continue the combat.

"Come now, Edgar," cried Arthur exultingly,
"one more charge and the battle is ours.  St. George
for England!  On! on!"

Side by side the two esquires rode down upon
their adversaries, who, wounded as they were, made
ready to meet them right gallantly.

Suddenly the earl raised his hand.

"Desist, desist!" he cried.

At a signal from the marshals the trumpets again
blared, and all knew that the conflict was at an end.

Cheering and counter-cheering had been well-nigh
continuous all the time the stirring encounter
had been proceeding, but at the signal for the
cessation of hostilities the burst of sound threatened
to rend the skies.  For some minutes it continued
unabated, and it was not until the earl stood up as
though about to speak that the volume of sound
died gradually away.

"Ye have all done right well," cried the earl
warmly, "and I have no wish that ye should push
matters to extremities in your friendly rivalries.
Ye started equal and ye have finished equal; right
nobly doth the result speak for the valour of both
wings of our army.  I hail it as the happiest
augury for the campaign that lies before us."

Loud and hearty cheers greeted his words.  His
politic intervention had relaxed the tension between
the English and Gascon spectators, and, with the
honour of both well saved, they could cheer the
well-fought fight without bitterness and without
stint.

"Let the victors approach," commanded the earl,
and the four esquires cantered to the stand and
dismounted.

Pages assisted them to unhelm, and they were led
forward by the marshal up the steps to the platform
where the earl stood.  It was remarked by all those
near enough to observe that while the faces of the
two Gascon esquires were pale and blood-streaked,
and Pomeroy's was flushed with exertion, Edgar's
showed no sign of the conflict whatever.

With a few words of hearty commendation, the
earl presented each esquire with a jewelled dagger
and a purse of gold as tokens of the esteem in
which their victorious emergence from the conflict
had caused them to be held.  Then they again
mounted and, with heads still uncovered, made a
full circuit of the lists before withdrawing to their
own enclosure.  Loud cheers and shouts of approval
followed them, and Edgar, preoccupied as he had
again become at the uncertainty of his master's
fate now that the combat was over, could not help
feeling a thrill of pleasure at having borne his
part in upholding his country's fair renown in the
domains of chivalry.

"Grammercy, my fair Edgar, thou didst almost
lose us the fight," cried Arthur Pomeroy, as the
two filed across to their comrades' side of the
greensward.  "I thought our friend the 'strong-arm'
had me of a surety when thou didst call him
off just in time.  'Twas a near thing betwixt victory
and defeat."

"Not victory, Arthur.  'Tis an honourable draw."

"We held the winning position--that is enough
for me.  Come now, where art bound?  Let us first
go and congratulate our comrades the Gascons on
the stout fight they provided us withal.  Then, if
they agree, perchance we may retire to the esquires'
pavilion and celebrate the mêlée in a manner fitting
to the occasion."

"Right willingly will I join in thy congratulations
of our friends the enemy," cried Edgar; "but
I must beg thee to excuse me from taking part in
any celebrations.  I have not time, even had I the
inclination, to join thee there.  I have matters on
foot that claim attention without delay, and I must
be off the instant I have added my meed of praise
to thine."

In a few minutes the esquires of both bands were
clustered together, eagerly discussing the many
exciting incidents of the encounter, and Edgar was
presently able to make good his exit without
attracting special attention.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Encounter with Sir Gervaise`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center large bold

   The Encounter with Sir Gervaise

.. vspace:: 2

When Edgar reached his tent, he found that Peter
had not yet returned since he had sent him off to
keep watch upon all who came and went at Sir
Gervaise's quarters.  A meal had, however, been
laid for him, probably by Matthew, so, hardly
knowing what was to be his next move and feeling
that he might soon need all his strength, Edgar
sat down and ate a hearty dinner.  Then, as Peter
had still not put in an appearance, he returned to
the scene of the tournament and made his way to
the stand where seats had been allotted to Sir
John and his party.  Somewhat to his surprise, he
found both Gertrude and Beatrice in their places.

"Hath any news good or ill reached you?" he
asked, as he took his place by their side.

"None," replied Beatrice quickly.  "We came
hither because we could not rest at the inn, and,
besides, we thought that news might be most
plentiful where so many people were gathered
together.  We feel little like enjoying the tourney,
brilliant though it is, but we both were glad to see
thee gain the day in thine encounters."

"I had not intended to take part," replied Edgar,
"but our captain, Arthur Pomeroy, sought me out
and dragged me with him to the lists.  Nevertheless,
while it lasted, I enjoyed it right well."

"Thy part was well done, but best of all, to my
mind, was thy succouring of poor Gaston Dugarde
and the chance thou didst give to the mighty
Guilbert to meet thee face to face.  Those deeds
have been the talk of the stand--far more so than
thy powers with lance and sword.  The one rings
of true chivalry, the other is known by a lesser
name."

"Mayhap," replied Edgar, "but, even so, skill
is not to be despised, for often 'tis that that makes
the other possible.  But 'twas not of the fight I
wished to speak.  I have forebodings that Sir
Gervaise de Maupas knoweth something of Sir John's
disappearance.  I have set Peter to watch his tent
and to let me know who hath called upon him this
morning.  He hath not yet returned, and, feeling
impatient, I came to tell you and to learn if
perchance you had aught of news for me."

"If thou thinkest 'tis De Maupas, wilt thou not
denounce him to the earl?" cried both Gertrude
and Beatrice with one voice.  "Surely so dastardly
a deed----"

"Nay, nay, ladies, there is no evidence upon
which I could cast such an aspersion upon the
name of a knight of fair fame.  'Twould be useless,
and would but put him upon his guard.  Nay, I
must proceed much more cautiously."

"But why should Sir Gervaise seek to do him
harm in secret when he hath full chance to defeat
him in the lists?" objected Beatrice.

"But could he defeat him?  And even if he did,
would Sir John's honour have received so foul a
blow as when he fails to answer to Sir Gervaise's
challenge?  No, the thing is planned to ruin Sir
John's honour, and right well do I fear it will do so."

"He will come," cried Gertrude in desperation.
"He will strain every nerve to be in his place at
the appointed time.  Still will I look for him."

"I too hope--but surely, Edgar Wintour, there
is something to be done!" cried Beatrice
impetuously.  "Thou canst act well and strongly in the
lists--art lost when the real need comes outside?
Thou art Sir John's esquire--appointed in the face
of all thy comrades--and he looks to thee for aid.
Prove thy title.  Once thou didst boast that when
a time of stress came upon us thou wouldst show
thy worth."

"I have done all that man could do," cried
Edgar, flushing deeply at the bitter rebuke.

"Sir John must be found," cried Beatrice, giving
a reckless stamp of her little foot.

Deeply mortified and not a little angry, Edgar
bowed low, retired from the stand, and strode
wrathfully back to his tent.  His way took him not
far from Sir Gervaise's quarters, and as he went it
occurred to him that he might pass by and see what
he could of Peter.  As he drew near he saw that
Sir Gervaise stood at the door already half-armed,
for the hour of his encounter approached apace;
and Edgar looked steadily at him to discern, if
possible, some sign of consciousness of villainy in
his strongly-marked features.  Their eyes met, and
Sir Gervaise beckoned him to approach.

"See that thy master is ready and well equipped,"
he said, with a smile that maddened Edgar, "for
I will humble his proud spirit this day--mark well
my words."

Gulping back the torrent of speech that rushed
to his lips, Edgar turned and hurried on his way.
In the second that he had met Sir Gervaise eye to
eye, a half-formed idea had hardened and tempered
into a firm resolve.  Sir John's life should be saved
and Sir John's honour should not be lost.

Peter was awaiting him at his tent, his face
aflame with eagerness and excitement.

"Sir," he cried breathlessly, "one of the men
we suspected rode in from the country but a
half-hour agone and had speech with Sir Gervaise.
I lay down at the tent door as though sleeping in
the sun, but could hear naught.  When the man
came out, however, he was clinking money in his
hand and smiling."

"Didst follow him?"

"I did; and I have learned both his name and
his haunts."

"Good!  Say no more now, Peter, but call
Matthew, for other and starker work lieth before us."

In a moment Matthew appeared.

"Saddle Sir John's best charger, 'Furore', and
fetch it hither," cried Edgar.  "Then bring out
its armour and trappings, and make it ready for
the lists."

"Ha," cried Matthew joyously, "then thou hast
news of Sir John!" and he hurried off to do the
esquire's bidding.

"Now, Peter," cried Edgar, flinging off his outer
garments, "aid me to don Sir John's armour--quickly,
lad, on thy life!"

"But Sir John----"

"*I* am Sir John this day.  See thou sayest no more
to anyone save Matthew.  Sir John's honour must
be saved, and saved it shall be if my utmost efforts
can compass it.  With vizor down, who shall know
that the well-known horse and coat-armour hold
not the knight, and that the shield that beareth his
blazonings is borne by another?"

Speechless with amazement, Peter strapped and
buckled with might and main, and Edgar was
almost ready when Matthew entered for the horse's
trappings.

When he saw who it was that was donning Sir
John's armour, he gave a gasp of astonishment.
Then gathering from Edgar's set face the full
significance of the proceeding, his own took on
a grim smile as, without a word, he seized the
horse's gear and hurried from the tent.

"Wilt take thine own weapons?" enquired Peter
presently.

"Nay.  I will take Sir John's and give no loophole
to suspicion.  Their weight is little more than
mine, and I feel strung to a pitch that would make
them feel light were they twice the weight."

"And for gage?  Wilt wear the lady Gertrude's
colours?"

"Nay.  I fear I cannot do that, or she will be
sure 'tis Sir John.  I will wear none, as in the mêlée.
See now if 'Furore' be ready."

The horse was ready, and, carefully closing his
vizor, Edgar stepped outside and vaulted into the
saddle.  Shield and lance were handed up to him,
and after testing his charger's gear to see that all
was fast, he prepared to start.  Sir John's armour
was somewhat heavier than his own, but he was so
accustomed to wearing armour in his practices and
so tense with excitement and determination that he
scarcely noticed it.

Edgar was now nineteen, and well grown and
well developed.  Though Sir John was a man of
more weighty build, he was no broader and but
a fraction taller.  The armour, therefore, fitted the
esquire well, and, mounted upon "Furore" and with
vizor closed, scarce his most intimate friend would
have known him from his master.  The horse was a
splendid animal, far better than Edgar's, and bore
the weight of armour and rider with ease and spirit.

It was now the hour for the encounter with
Sir Gervaise, and in the distance Edgar could hear
the trumpets of the heralds announcing the
combat.  He could picture De Maupas riding majestically
into the lists, confident of adding to his
prestige by a victory by default against so
well-known an antagonist as Sir John Chartris.  How
he would make his steed curvet and prance before
the populace, as he rode round the lists waiting in
vain for his foe to answer to the challenge!

A second time the trumpets of the heralds rang
out, and, setting spurs to his horse, Edgar rode
straight for the enclosure.  "Furore" seemed to
enter fully into the spirit of the enterprise, and it
was at a swinging gallop that Edgar dashed
suddenly into the lists.

A roar of applause arose from the whole circle
of the spectators, who were just beginning to
wonder where Sir John Chartris might be.
Without a pause, Edgar rode to the earl's stand and
saluted.  Then he paced on down to his own end
of the lists, saluting the Wolsingham ladies as he
passed them by.

"He hath come!" cried Gertrude, tense with
excitement, the instant horse and man appeared in the
lists.

Beatrice followed her gaze, and for one instant
joyfully agreed.  Then she began to doubt.

"Nay, nay, Gertrude, this cannot be Sir John.
Where are thy colours?"

"He hath had no time----"

"But Sir John is waxing on in years, and rideth
heavily in his saddle.  This man rideth with an
ease and spring as though younger and of a
lighter make.  Hush--cry not out--'tis Edgar
Wintour, of a certainty!  'Tis to this that I have
goaded him on!"

"But why should----?"

"To save Sir John's honour.  Didst not feel as
though even death were better than his dishonour
a moment agone when the heralds cried his name
in vain?  Hurrah--I could cry aloud to think that
that vile Sir Gervaise will not gain a bloodless
victory!  But yet--after all--surely he cannot fail
to conquer one who is but an esquire?"

Gertrude answered not, and both maidens sat
still and held their breaths as the stirring scenes
passed before their gaze.

It was observed by more than one that on the
sudden entry of his antagonist Sir Gervaise showed
signs of excitement.  He seemed agitated and
shook--with gusts of anger, those who noticed it
supposed--and for some moments his charger
reared and backed unmanageably, as though sharing
his master's fierce emotions.

After a moment or two, however, the knight
regained control over his steed, and with cruel
jabs of the spur urged him back into position.
The charger had been celebrated in the past for
its unusual power and strength, and to this fact the
reputation of Sir Gervaise was in a great measure
due.  It had now, however, passed its prime, and
De Maupas could no longer count upon its excellence
giving him the advantage of his competitors.

Edgar had profited by the moments occupied
by Sir Gervaise in regaining the mastery over his
steed, and had settled down quietly into position.
His thoughts had flown back to the sacrifice his
father had made to save Sir John at Sluys, and
he resolved that he would be as ready as his father
to lay down his life, if necessary, in this his own
moment of call.  Firmly grasping his lance, he
fixed his eyes warily upon his adversary through
his vizor slits.  Horse and man seemed as steady
and immovable as a rock, in striking contrast to
Sir Gervaise, who fidgeted with his weapons and
seemed impatient during the trying pause before
the onset sounded: "*Laissez aller*".

With the speed of arrows the steel-clad warriors
crashed together in the middle of the lists.  Each
man aimed his lance at the centre of his opponent's
shield, and both struck fair and true.  The
impact hurled the chargers violently back upon their
haunches and forced their riders backwards to the
limit of endurance, while their stout ash lances
were bent and split from end to end!  De Maupas,
for the moment, kept his seat successfully, but his
horse, pawing the air and snorting frantically,
struggled in vain to regain its balance, and
presently rolled over ignominiously upon the ground.
Edgar, on the other hand, though the shock had
been just as severe, managed, by dint of voice
and spur, to aid his steed's recovery, and in a few
seconds it was on its feet, with its rider ready for
the foe.

Disentangling himself from his horse's trappings,
Sir Gervaise drew sword, and, furious at his
undignified mischance, sprang towards his adversary,
thirsting to retrieve his fallen fortunes.

.. _`"SIR GERVAISE SPRANG TOWARDS HIS ADVERSARY, THIRSTING TO RETRIEVE HIS FALLEN FORTUNES"`:

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   :alt: "SIR GERVAISE SPRANG TOWARDS HIS ADVERSARY, THIRSTING TO RETRIEVE HIS FALLEN FORTUNES"

   "SIR GERVAISE SPRANG TOWARDS HIS ADVERSARY, THIRSTING
   TO RETRIEVE HIS FALLEN FORTUNES"

Disdaining to meet him at any advantage, Edgar
flung away the fragments of his lance, seized Sir
John's heavy battleaxe, and slipped lightly from
the saddle.  Scarce had he faced Sir Gervaise when
the furious knight was upon him with sword
up-raised.  Knowing that his battleaxe was almost
useless for defence, Edgar heeded not the blow,
but, half-turning, swung his own heavy weapon
sideways at his opponent's head.  The knight's
blow fell first with a stroke that bit deep into
Edgar's casque, but before De Maupas could
spring back out of reach, the axe stroke smote him
on the side of his helmet with a weight and
momentum that sent him crashing headlong to the
ground.

A dull roar of applause arose from the whole
circle of the lists.

Dropping his axe, Edgar snatched his dagger
from his belt and sprang towards the fallen man.
Kneeling upon his chest he cried aloud:

"Yield thee vanquished, Sir Gervaise de Maupas!"  Then
in a low voice, but in tones thrilling
with resolve, he went on, "*Tell me where Sir John
if, or thy life is forfeit!*"

There was no response.

"Desist, Sir John," cried one of the marshals
of the lists, hurriedly approaching, "he is stunned,
if not dead.  Thou art acknowledged victor--retire
while we see to the stricken man."

Heavy with disappointment at being thwarted
at the moment when he hoped all might be won,
Edgar mechanically mounted and rode slowly
round the lists.  The air still rang with the plaudits
of the spectators, and, as he passed along, loud cries
reached him, some, wishing to do him the more
honour, calling upon him to unhelm.

Fearing that his refusal at least to lower his
vizor might cause some adverse comment, Edgar
dropped it an inch or so and left it, hoping that it
might be thought that the blow his headpiece had
received had damaged the hinges of his vizor.
With a final salute, first to the earl and then to the
Wolsingham ladies, he rode dully from the lists.
The cheers of the spectators fell on deaf ears, for
though he had defeated Sir Gervaise and upheld
Sir John's honour, he felt that he was still as far
as ever from solving the mystery of his master's
disappearance.

As he reached the door of his tent, Matthew and
Peter came running up, their faces wreathed with
smiles at their young master's victory.

"Aid me to strip off this armour," cried Edgar, the
moment he had entered the tent, "and remember
that Sir John is gone--gone upon the visit to
Faucigny Castle, in the lands of the lady Beatrice,
that he has had all along in mind.  He gained the
earl's permission some time since, as he told me
himself.  Thus at least we gain some precious days
in which to continue our enquiries."

"Pardon, Master Edgar," cried Peter, suddenly
stopping, "with thy permission I will hie me to
Sir Gervaise's tent.  It may well be that this is a
time when it might advantage us to keep close
watch upon those about him."

"Go, Peter.  His esquire will be bringing him
back in a few minutes.  He is but stunned.  Listen
for what thou canst hear.  Who knows but that a
few chance words may tell us all?"

Waiting for no more, Peter sped off upon his
errand, and when, a half-hour later, Sir Gervaise
was carried into his tent, he was snugly ensconced
beneath a pile of horse's trappings at the very door.





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   CHAPTER X


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   News of Sir John

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The dusk of evening was falling as Sir Gervaise
raised himself from the couch upon which he had
been restlessly tossing ever since he had been
carried in.  His head was swathed in bandages,
and the light of the single lamp showed a face
pale beneath its sunburn, in which a pair of fierce
black eyes burned with an unnatural brightness.

"I have waited in suspense long enough," he
muttered to himself.  Then, in a louder key, he
called to his esquire who was in attendance upon him.

"Arnaud, I have business that I must transact
this night.  Fetch me hither, then, the varlet James
Baulch, and then betake thyself to thy tent.  Stay,
first fill up my cup, for my head still throbs
consumedly from the blow that trickster Chartris gave me."

The esquire obeyed, and in a minute the wounded
knight was alone.  Freed from the restraint of his
esquire's presence, Sir Gervaise groaned aloud with
the pain of his bruised and swollen head, and
muttered savagely to himself what sounded like
threats and imprecations against his successful foe
and also the varlet James, who seemed somehow to
have incurred his especial displeasure.

Presently the man arrived escorted by the esquire,
who seemed to look somewhat askance at his charge.
He glanced significantly at his master as he was
about to leave the tent, and, interpreting the look,
the knight cried as he scowled savagely at the man:
"Yes, Arnaud, remain outside within call.  I
may require thy services."

Arnaud bowed and retired, and the knight, raising
himself, not without difficulty, into a sitting
posture and placing a dagger ready to his hand,
beckoned the man to approach.

"So thou hast played me false, James Baulch,
murderer and vagabond?" he cried in a voice thick
with rage.  "Thou, whom I have but to lift a
finger to consign to the gibbet--thou hast dared
to lie to me."

The man cowered before the knight's pallid face
and gleaming eyes.  "There is some mistake," he
stammered, "I----"

"Aye--thou art right," cried the knight savagely,
"'tis the mistake I made when, with a trumped-up
tale, I snatched thee from the sheriff's men.  I
had better have let thee hang and moulder--but 'tis
not yet too late.  The arm of the law is strong and
swift even in Gascony, and on the word of a knight
thy shrift----"

"My lord!  My lord!" cried the man, grovelling
in terror on the floor.  "I swear there is some
mistake.  With mine own eyes at dawn this morning
I saw Sir John, bound and helpless, lying at the
bottom of a wagon.  I rode straight hither, and he
who fought with thee must be some other.  My
lord, it must be so."

"Bah!  Scoundrel!  That is but a tale--another
lie--to save thy wretched neck from the gallows."

"It is not--it is not!" almost shrieked the man.
"Didst not mark--but thou wert senseless--has
not, then, thine esquire told thee that he who
fought as Sir John did not drop his vizor even
when he saluted the earl?"

"Say'st thou so?" cried the knight, startled.
"Strange!" he went on, muttering to himself.  "I
seemed to feel a difference as he entered the lists.
Both horse and man seemed doubly full of fire,
while Sir John always rode heavily."

"Yes, yes," cried the man eagerly.  "It was
noticed by others.  I heard two men say that Sir
John was riding lighter in the saddle than he
used to."

"Can this be the explanation?" went on De
Maupas, still speaking half to himself.  "I never
thought of such a daring ruse being played upon
me.  Who can the man be?  Doubtless one of Sir
John's friends--but who?  'Twill be the worse for
him an I find out the truth," he ended darkly,
clenching his teeth with suppressed rage.

"Give me leave to find out the knight's name,
my lord," interrupted Baulch in an eager voice.

Sir Gervaise for a minute or two made no reply,
but gazed at his accomplice with so gloomy and
menacing a look that the man literally shook with fear.

"Very well, Baulch," he said sternly after a
pause, "thy neck may rest at peace on thy shoulders
for a space, while thou art finding out who it was
that masqueraded as Sir John.  Find out, I say,
find out!  Dare to bungle a second time, and the
gallows that gape for thee shall have thee fast!"

With trembling lips the man hastily promised
to find out the truth.

Nodding carelessly, Sir Gervaise went on to talk
of other matters.  There could be no doubt that
his confidence in the ascendancy he had obtained
over the man was not misjudged.  The man was
obviously under a spell, mastered by a hidden
terror so great that all else was completely
swallowed up.

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It was noon the following day when the man
again made his appearance and requested Arnaud
to tell Sir Gervaise that James Baulch craved a few
minutes' further speech.  Arnaud complied, though
from the expression of his face it might have been
inferred that the desire to kick the man was the
feeling uppermost in his mind.

"Well, Baulch?" growled the knight, who still
reclined upon a couch, and whose temper seemed
in no way improved by his night's rest.  "Hast
news to tell?  If not 'twill be the worse for thee."

"I have news, my lord--strange news.  Whether
'twill please thee or not, I cannot say, but----"

"Peace, knave!  Tell thy news and madden me
not with thy thoughts of what pleases me."

"'Twas Edgar Wintour fought with thee in the
lists," blurted out the man hurriedly.  "I have
heard words let fall that make the matter clear."

"Edgar Wintour--and who is Edgar Wintour?"
cried the knight with savage impatience.

"He is Sir John's esquire."

The look that came into the knight's face made
Baulch regret the success of his enquiries.  De
Maupas gasped, grew even paler than before, and
clutched convulsively at the couch on which he lay.
Then a sudden passion seemed to galvanize him
into activity and he rose to his feet almost with a
bound.

"What!" he thundered.  "Dare ye tell me that----?"

But his strength was unequal to the effort, and
clutching at his bandages with both hands, as
though his head were about to split in twain, he
sank slowly and painfully back upon the couch.

"A pretty debt I owe the boy if thy tale is true,"
he muttered at last in a changed voice.  "Art sure
of thy facts?"

"Sure, my lord.  I saw him mounted upon Sir
John's charger early this morning, and the way he
rode made me think at once of the spring and fire
of thine adversary yesterday.  Then I heard some
words let drop by one Matthew, a man-at-arms of
Sir John, and I knew 'twas so."

"So that was what was in his mind when he
gave me that strange look yesterday," muttered
De Maupas to himself.  "It was on my lips to
demand an explanation.  Would I had done so!
I might have forced the quarrel then and there with
the advantage on my side, mailed and ready for a
conflict as I was."

"Canst not let the good earl know of the trick
he played?" said the man presently.  "Surely he
would punish him for daring so to dupe the
marshals of the lists?"

"Be silent, fool!  Dost think I want all the
world to know that I, a knight, was beaten by an
unfledged esquire?  See to it that no word of it is
breathed by thee."

For some time Sir Gervaise remained silent,
staring viciously at the ground the while.  The
expression on his face was not good to see, and it
might have been as well had Edgar Wintour been
there to see it.

"Baulch," said the knight at last, "Baulch, I
gave thee money for Sir John Chartris--alive.  I
offer thee double the sum for this Edgar
Wintour--dead.  Dost understand?"

The tone of the knight's voice was low and
measured, but the expression of his face was so
deadly that the blackest rage would have seemed
less implacable.  Baulch seemed to have no great
stomach for the task put to him, but one furtive
look at the knight's face was sufficient, and he
answered hastily:

"I understand, my lord."

"Then begone."

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"Couldst hear no more than that, Peter?  Nothing
save a few words of angry reproach against
the man when De Maupas's voice rang highest?"

"No, sir.  I could get no nearer, for De Maupas's
esquire, Arnaud, paced to and fro outside,
doubtless by his master's orders.  Most of the time
the two spake only of the tournament, though once
I feel sure they talked of Sir John, but they dropped
their voices and only formless words reached my ears."

"Ah!  Then I fear it behoves us to find out,"
cried Edgar in a decided tone.  "We cannot afford
to go on like this, Peter.  The Wolsingham ladies
are becoming most anxious, and if we cannot soon
get news, we must acquaint the earl of the truth
and implore his aid, though I fear it will bring us
little comfort.  Ye say ye know where this man
Baulch lives?"

"Yes, he lives at a low inn in the lowest and
most rascally quarter of the town."

"Good!  'Tis the better for our purpose.  At
nightfall, Peter, I must visit this inn, and see what
stratagem or the sword will accomplish.  Tell me
how I may find it, and then be off and get me some
peasant's clothing, old and soiled with use, and
have it ready an hour or two before the gates are
closed."

At the time appointed Peter produced a bundle
of clothing, and Edgar was soon well disguised as
a young countryman on a visit to the town to make
his purchases.  The clothing was somewhat
malodorous, but as this added considerably to the
realistic effect, Edgar recked little of that.  His own
sword was far too well made and well finished to be
taken, so Peter obtained for him the least pretentious
amongst those carried by Sir John's men-at-arms.
This was buckled on in an awkward and clumsy
manner, so as to give as unwarlike an air to a
warlike weapon as possible.

Foreseeing the possibility of a fight in a locality
of such unsavoury reputation, Edgar took the
precaution to don his light flexible shirt of steel mail
before putting on the peasant's garments, and to
have a dagger concealed beneath his clothes ready
to hand in case of an attack too sudden and at too
close quarters to allow him to draw his sword.

It was a few minutes short of the hour at which
the gates of the city closed when, as a peasant,
he rapped loudly at the door of a low-lying,
rambling, single-story structure overlooking the river
Garonne.  The street was in complete darkness,
save for the dim light emitted through the shuttered
windows of one or two of the hovels and crazy
dwellings which huddled together along each side
of the narrow roadway.

After a short delay the door opened, and one of
the most villainous-looking men Edgar had ever
set eyes on made his appearance.

"What seek ye?" he enquired, peering suspiciously
first at the newcomer and then over his
shoulder, as though to find out whether he was alone.

"Some of thy good cheer, landlord.  I was seeking
another inn which a neighbour of mine speaks
well of, but lost my way, and a man I chanced
upon by good hap outside sent me to thee.  Give
me sup of thy best; I have money and can pay,"
and Edgar, assuming an air of pride and importance,
flaunted a handful of coins under the man's eyes.

"Thou shalt have it, noble sir," cried the
landlord, with a leer which was meant to encourage his
guest, and he led the way into a long room, bare
of furniture save for a couple of tables and some
rough benches.  The room was fairly lofty, but
numbers of smoked hams and other objects hanging
from the rafters made it appear low and gloomy.
Half a dozen men, amongst whom Edgar was quick
to discern James Baulch, lounged upon the benches
drinking and dicing.

Edgar took stock of his surroundings as the
landlord led him to the end of the room farthest from
the other occupants, and, fetching a chair from a
side room and carefully placing it in position at
the table, invited his guest to take a seat.

In a few minutes some food, rough and unpalatable,
was brought, and Edgar made shift to eat it,
as though with a good appetite.  Then he leaned
back in his chair, and, half-shutting his eyes,
pretended to be nearly asleep.  He hoped that most
of the men would soon leave, and that he might
have an opportunity of accosting Baulch alone or
of following him to his room, wherever that might be.

Presently he missed one of the men, and shortly
after the others broke into a rough drinking song.
Edgar then realized, with something of a shock,
that instead of being the pursuer he was now the
pursued.  It was not the mere withdrawal of one
of the men that made him think this, but the quiet,
stealthy manner in which the man must have left,
and the way in which the other men began their
song simultaneously, as though at a signal.  It
almost seemed that the song was intended to cloak
something, perhaps the arrival of a further band of
ruffians.  Edgar began to regret that he had
exhibited his money so freely--or could it be that
Baulch had seen through his disguise?

A slight rustling noise close to him attracted his
attention, and giving up the pretence of being
nearly asleep, he opened his eyes wide and looked
warily about him.  The men had stopped their
song, and were gazing in his direction with an
air of covert expectation.  Something was going
on--that much was clear as noonday.  Another
slight rustle, and Edgar looked quickly above him
into the blackness beyond the hams and other
objects hanging from the rafters.  He was just in
time to catch a glimpse of something as it dropped
down over his head.  It was a rope!

Before he had time to spring to his feet and fling
it off his shoulders, it was drawn tightly round his
neck with a quick jerk, and he was lifted almost
off his feet.  The peril was extreme, and realizing
in a flash that only the most desperate exertions
could save him, Edgar grasped the rope above the
slip knot with his left hand, while with his right
he drew his dagger and reached up to cut the rope,
straining on tiptoe to get a purchase.

Suddenly a trapdoor, upon which his chair had
evidently been placed, gave way beneath his feet,
and the whole of his weight fell upon his left arm.
Choking, half-strangled, with eyes starting from his
head, Edgar strove to cut the rope with his dagger.
One stroke, feeble from his straining position and
reeling brain--a second stroke--then a third, into
which all his remaining strength was put--and like
a stone he fell half-fainting through the trapdoor
into a cellar below.

For a moment or two he was unable to move.
Half-strangled and half-dazed by the dread attack
and sudden fall, he was in so helpless a condition
that he could not have lifted a hand to save his life.
The noise of footsteps on the stone stairs leading
to the cellar and the harsh grating of a key in the
lock roused him a little, however, and he feebly
extricated himself from the legs of the chair upon
which he had fallen.  Scarcely had he done so
before two men, one of whom bore a torch, ran
hurriedly in and rushed at him with knives
upraised.  The man bearing the light Edgar
recognized as James Baulch.

Against their attack Edgar at first could defend
himself but feebly.  His hand still clutched the
dagger with which he had severed the rope, but
before he was in a condition to use it he had
received several body thrusts that would have
dispatched him outright had it not been for the
shirt of steel mail he wore beneath his clothing.

Every moment, however, his strength came back,
and, watching his chance, presently he parried a
blow from Baulch's companion, and brought the
hilt of his own dagger down upon the ruffian's
head with all his strength.  The man dropped
prone in his tracks amid a yell of wrath from the
men in the room above, who were eagerly peering
down at the conflict from the opening in the floor.

Feeling that his chance had come, Edgar sprang
fiercely upon Baulch and flung him to the floor,
the torch spinning from his hand to the other end
of the cellar.  Kneeling upon the man's chest
and placing his dagger at his throat, Edgar cried
sternly:

"Tell me where is Sir John Chartris, or thou
shall die."

The man gasped with amazement and fear, and
cried hastily: "At Ruthènes."

"Where is this Ruthènes?" cried Edgar quickly.

But the man seemed already to have repented
that he had told so much, and with an effort made
shift to grasp the hand that held the threatening
dagger.  Doubtless he had seen the faces of his
four friends above disappear from the trap, and
had heard the scurry of their feet as they rushed
across the room and made for the stairs.  It could
be but a matter of seconds before they were on the
scene.  Edgar, too, had heard the scurry of feet,
and realized at once that he could get no more
information before it would be too late.  Wrenching
himself free from Baulch's grasp and springing to
his feet, he seized the chair and placed it upright
beneath the trapdoor.

The instant he was free Baulch scrambled to his
feet, and, emboldened by the approach of help--for
the others' footsteps now sounded loudly upon
the stairs--rushed at Edgar with a yell, and tried
to prevent him mounting upon the chair.

"We will have thee yet, Edgar Wintour," he
cried exultingly.

Edgar had flung away his dagger, but at this
attack he turned and shot out his arm with all his
strength.  The blow caught the man full in the
face, and felled him headlong.

The first of the men, leaping down the stairs,
burst into the cellar just as Edgar, seizing the edge
of the floor above with his hands, sprang off the
chair, head and shoulders, into the room overhead.
Flinging up his right leg and making another effort,
he lifted himself until he stood upright upon the
floor.

For the moment the room was empty, but the
men below, mad with rage at being again tricked,
were already in pursuit, shouting like wild beasts,
and there was no time to be lost.  Without an
instant's delay, therefore, Edgar sprang to the
window, flung aside the shutters, and looked
eagerly out.  As he expected, the gleam of water
met his gaze, and, placing one hand upon the sill,
he sprang headlong out and vanished into the
waters of the Garonne.





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.. _`In Pursuit`:

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   CHAPTER XI


.. class:: center large bold

   In Pursuit

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An hour later a weary-looking, soaked figure
knocked loudly and insistently at the door of the
inn which sheltered the ladies Gertrude and
Beatrice.  It was Edgar, exhausted by a long
swim in sodden garments and shirt of mail, which
had well nigh dragged him to the bottom of the
river.  After a short parley the landlord admitted
him, and, seeing his sorry condition, proceeded
to light a fire to dry his wet garments, and
good-naturedly lent him others until they were ready for
use.

"Dost wish me to tell Sir John's ladies that thou
art come?" he asked presently.

"Nay, I will spend the night before this fire, and
speak to them early in the morning.  Tell me when
ye hear them stirring."

Long before Edgar awoke in the morning Peter
had arrived, anxious to know if anything had been
heard of his master.  Seeing him asleep, and
hearing of the exhausted condition in which he had
arrived, he sat down patiently to wait until he
should awake.

"Hast learned aught?" he cried as soon as
Edgar opened his eyes.

"Aye, though what 'tis worth I know not;" and
Edgar related the incidents of the attack and escape
the night before.  "Baulch said that Sir John was
at Ruthènes, or a place that sounded much like it.
Whatever that name may be worth to us, it would
seem that Sir John is at least still alive."

"Ruthènes!" echoed Peter thoughtfully.  "Methinks
I have heard a word that sounded like that
before.  Yes, I have it; it was a word spoken more
than once by De Maupas to that rascal Baulch.  I
could not catch it fully, but now I know the word,
I feel sure it was that they were repeating."

"Then we are on the right track," cried Edgar
joyfully.  "Now we must find where Ruthènes is.
Call mine host."

The landlord was called and asked if he knew of
a place called Ruthènes.  After a moment's thought
he announced that he had heard of it as a castle of
evil reputation situated on the lower slopes of the
Pyrenees many leagues distant.  It belonged to a
knight named Eustace de Brin, who appeared to
be better known amongst the country folk and
peasantry as Black Eustace.  Exactly why he should
have earned so terrible a name, however, the
landlord was unable to say.

Satisfied that Baulch had not lied to him, Edgar
desired the landlord to send someone to arouse the
ladies, and to tell them that Sir John's esquire
begged a few minutes' audience with them upon a
matter of great importance.  Then he turned to
Peter and instructed him to return to the camp,
to saddle Sir John's two best horses, and to make
all ready for a long journey.  On his way through
the town he was to obtain more countrymen's
clothes of a better cut and quality than his last
purchase--such, indeed, as might be worn by small
traders travelling on business from one part of the
country to another.

Very shortly both the ladies appeared, eager to
know why Edgar had come to them so early in the
day, and guessing that he must have news to tell.

In a few brief sentences Edgar described the
scene at the inn, and the means by which he had
extracted one single word from Baulch, which, he
hoped, contained the key to Sir John's whereabouts.
Then he announced that he had made up his mind
to set out forthwith for Castle Ruthènes, accompanied
only by Peter, and to do all in his power to
deliver Sir John from his captors.

"But will not this Eustace offer him to ransom?"
cried Beatrice.  "We will gladly pay a ransom,
however great, so long as we can get him safely back."

"I much misdoubt me whether Sir John would
consent to a ransom being paid to dishonourable
captors," replied Edgar.  "'Tis not as though he
had been captured in fair fight.  Besides, would
De Maupas consider himself avenged by a share
in a ransom, for, of course, he must be in league
with this Black Eustace?"

"I know not," cried Beatrice, stamping her foot
in vexation.  "But what seek ye to do?  How can
ye two carry Sir John away by force from a
stronghold such as Castle Ruthènes seems to be?"

"By stratagem, backed by force if need be.
There is naught else to be done.  The earl is not
yet ready to move, and even if he were, he could
not move for months into so remote a part of the
enemy's country as the district in which Ruthènes
lies."

"Well, then, go, Edgar.  Gertrude and I will
pray for thy success even more heartily than in the
combat with De Maupas.  But trust not to thy
sword too much.  Ye hotheaded esquires think far
too much of prowess in arms."

"I thank thee, maiden.  I will try to remember
thy counsels," replied Edgar, with a slight smile.

"But what are we to tell those who enquire for
my father?" cried Gertrude.

"That is already settled.  A day or two before he
disappeared Sir John obtained leave from the earl
to visit the lands of the lady Beatrice in Faucigny.
Many called to congratulate him on his defeat of
De Maupas, but hearing that he had left, supposed
that he had already gone thence.  I think it would
be best if the lady Beatrice went to Faucigny for a
time, and that thou didst return to Wolsingham."

"Nay, I shall not return home until I know what
hath befallen my father," cried Gertrude decidedly.
"Beatrice may please herself whether she visits her
tenants at Faucigny, but I remain here.  If the earl
moves forward in thy absence the men-at-arms must
go, but Matthew I shall keep with me."

A few more words and Edgar bade the ladies
adieu, bidding them be of good cheer for the news
he had brought showed that at any rate Sir John
was alive.  A rescue would, he trusted, only be a
matter of time.  Though the ladies were unable to
accept so hopeful a statement, yet they felt a real
thrill of hope.  The dash and daring of the young
esquire in the lists outside Bordeaux, the
determination displayed by him in his onslaught upon
the miscreant Baulch in the riverside inn, and the
not less striking success which had attended both
ventures gave them a ground for hoping at which
they would have laughed a week ago.

Two hours later Edgar left the camp,
accompanied by Peter, and took the road which led in
the direction of Ruthènes.  Both were dressed as
small traders, though it must be confessed that their
mounts were vastly superior to the steeds such men
usually bestrode.  Both carried sword and dagger,
and Edgar wore beneath his outer garments the
light shirt of steel mail which had already done
him such good service.  Permission to leave had
readily been granted to him on the understanding
that he was *en route* to rejoin Sir John Chartris.

Before he left, Edgar called Matthew and gave
him strict instructions to keep vigilant watch and
ward over the Wolsingham ladies, and especially
to see that neither went abroad unaccompanied by
a proper escort.  His fears for them, however,
largely vanished when Matthew told him that De
Maupas had recovered sufficiently to leave the
camp for a destination which he had been unable
to discover.  The man Baulch appeared to have
been left behind.

After a three-days' journey over rough roads,
oftentimes mere tracks, Edgar and Peter reached
a village in the vicinity of the castle of Ruthènes.
Their arrival created something of a stir, for the
village and district were so remote from the trade
routes and highways that strangers were hardly
ever seen.  Somewhat disturbed that they were
not able, as they wished, to pass unnoticed about
their business, Edgar enquired whether the village
boasted an inn.  It did not, but the house which
performed the nearest approach to that office was
pointed out to him, and they made their way there
and dismounted.  A target for curiosity, and also,
apparently, for barely concealed hostility, the two
sat down to the poor hospitality the place afforded,
feeling that the difficulties before them were greater
even than they had anticipated.

It was evening when they arrived, and they had
scarcely been there half an hour before no less a
personage than the village priest called, ostensibly
as a chance visitor, but really, as Edgar shrewdly
suspected, to examine the two strangers, and to
ascertain, if possible, what their visit portended.

"Ye are strangers here," remarked the priest, as
he brought a mess of soup to the table at which
Edgar and Peter were seated, and sat down himself.

Edgar assented and went on with his meal,
though he kept a watchful eye upon the priest.
The man was past middle age, tall and well built
to all appearances, and had a kindly and pleasant,
though careworn, face.  Kindly as he looked,
Edgar felt anxious to keep the real object of his
visit there a secret from this man more than any
other, for of all those in the village it was most
probable that the local priest was on friendliest
terms with the lord of the soil at Castle Ruthènes.

"Doubtless 'tis to visit the castle, and not us
poor villagers, that ye are come," said the priest
quietly, after a few minutes' pause.

"Nay, we know not Sir Eustace, and though we
should like to see so fine a castle before we pass on,
we shall not seek his hospitality."

"Are ye for us or against us?" asked the priest
suddenly, fixing a pair of steady grey eyes upon
Edgar.

"I know not what ye mean," said Edgar uncomfortably.

"I mean, are ye for the downtrodden and oppressed,
or do ye uphold those who grind and ill-use
the weak and helpless?"

"Certainly not the latter," cried Edgar quickly.

"Then join thyself to us, and make thyself
famous in aiding a noble cause," cried the priest,
his face flushing and his eyes sparkling like those
of a zealot.

"What is this cause of which ye speak?" asked
Edgar warily.

"It is to deliver these downtrodden folk amongst
whom it is my sad lot to work.  Have ye not heard
of the ill fame of this Black Eustace, as he is
called--and rightly called?  Tell me that ye are not of
his party--but I am sure ye are not, otherwise I
would not have spoken so plainly."

"I am not.  'Tis but three days since I heard
his name for the first time."

"Ah! then ye know not that he is the scourge of
all this land, and doth kill and burn and flay
without let or hindrance?  He hath powerful friends,
and never a thing is done when he ill-uses the poor
ignorant folk who inhabit the land he calls his own.
I have seen things with my own eyes that call aloud
to heaven for vengeance, and yet the time cometh not."

"The country folk would then like to be rid of
Sir Eustace?"

"Aye, they would like to rid themselves of him
if only it were possible to poor and ill-armed men.
Woe to me, a priest, that I should have to uphold
the meeting of violence by violence! but I have
tried to find another way and failed.  I have been
told that such a state as exists here exists in many
other parts of France.  If that be so, terrible things
will be witnessed in the years to come.[1#]  I cannot
believe, however, that things can be so bad
elsewhere as they are here, for whereas we are poor
and ignorant, in other places the people are rich
and powerful, and can resist oppression in many ways."


[#] The priest was right.  In the rising
of the "Jacquerie", which took
place a few years later, dreadful scenes
of violence and bloodshed were
witnessed.


"Undoubtedly," murmured Edgar, nodding his
head in agreement.

"But what we most lack is leaders," went on the
priest in a still more earnest tone.  "There is no
one here, save myself, who stands out from the
herd of poor miserable folk, and without leaders
men with no knowledge of warfare are doubly
useless.  We want leaders," he reiterated in a meaning
tone, fixing his eyes upon Edgar in a way that
made that young man feel most uncomfortable.

"Yes, yes," replied Edgar in a soothing tone.
"Doubtless the leaders ye need will be forthcoming
when the time comes."

"The time has come, but the leaders are absent,"
cried the priest; and he was apparently about to
say more when he stopped suddenly, as though
with a great effort, and stared frowningly at the
table.

Devoutly hoping that the priest had done and
would spare them any further confidences, Edgar
turned towards Peter and began to talk upon other
topics.  In a minute or two, however, the priest
raised his head and went on:

"But what are ye here for?  Ye say ye are not
visitors to the castle.  Yet art thou, sir, if I am not
mistaken, a man trained to war, and your steeds
tell the same tale.  What else can there be in this
remote spot that would attract thee save the castle?
Thy patois is strange and unfamiliar to me, for I
have travelled little; but undoubtedly thou hast
journeyed here from afar."

Edgar smiled.  His knowledge of the French
tongue had been for the most part acquired at
Wolsingham, where several had a good knowledge
of it.  On to this, however, had been grafted,
since his arrival, a strong Gascon flavour that more
than possibly assorted somewhat ill with his
previous acquirements.

The priest was waiting for a reply, and Edgar
quickly made up his mind to confide in him the
true reason for his presence there.  It was practically
certain that did he not do so the priest would
have him watched, and that, he felt, would be
disastrous.

"Yes," he said, "I have travelled here from
afar.  Like you, I am at enmity with those who
shelter behind the walls of Castle Ruthènes, and,
like you, I seek to outmanoeuvre them.  They hold
prisoner one whom I must rescue at all costs."  Then
Edgar went on to describe briefly what had
happened to Sir John, and how he had come to
believe that he had been carried away to Ruthènes.

The priest listened attentively to the end.  "Then
your interests are identical with ours," he said in a
voice which rang with triumph.  "Why should ye
not throw in your lot with us and aid us to fling
down yon frowning battlements?  Your knight
shall thus be saved and my poor downtrodden folk
delivered from the oppressor.  Ye are trained to
war, to the siege of castles, and to the command
of men: take command of my people jointly with
me.  'Tis a righteous cause--unhesitatingly I
proclaim it."

Moved in spite of himself by the priest's deep
earnestness and sincerity, Edgar for some moments
could find no words with which to reply.  He had
heard many tales of the misery and degradation of
the poorer classes of France, and their truth had been
brought home by the sights that had met his gaze
on the long journey thither.  There could be little
doubt that that unhappy condition was due in a
very large measure to unjust extortion and oppression
by the ruling classes.  But his first duty was
to Sir John.

"I fear it cannot be," he said presently.  "I
must accomplish the rescue of my master at once,
or I may find it too late.  Then, when I have
delivered him, I shall be at his disposal, and can
therefore make no promise of aid to thee.  Your
folk, if I mistake not, are not yet ready for the
rising ye project.  They are not organized, they
have not been taught to obey any given set of
signals, and they have no belief in one another.
There must be weeks of patient work ere they can
be led to attack a fortalice defended by trained and
resolute men.  Nay, victory cannot be snatched by
a rising on the spur of the moment.  There must
be much work of patient preparation."

There was a long pause.  Then the priest, his
face full of trouble, rose from the bench on which
he had been sitting, and began feverishly to pace
the room.

"It is so," he said.  "I feel it, though I am
impatient to get to grips with the evildoers.  I must
begin at once, though when we are ready we shall
still lack leaders.  But mayhap ye will have failed
to succour your knight, and will be glad to fall
back upon our aid.  Who knows?"

"Who knows, indeed?  But I hope and believe
not.  If I have not rescued my master by then, I
fear it will be because I am either dead or captured.
But canst tell me aught of this castle?  Is it strong?
Doth it consist of a single donjon, or hath it outer
walls?"

"It is an ancient castle, the origin of which is
buried in the obscurity of the past.  It hath a
central donjon and also outer walls, most of it and
all the stronger parts being built in its later days
in imitation of the castles built by the Northmen in
other parts of France.  'Tis strong, I know, for I
have studied it with intent to discover its weakest
spots."

"Hast discovered aught?  I would fain learn,
Sir Priest, any points that would help me in my
quest.  In return I will joyfully impart to you such
knowledge as may come to me in my enterprise."

"I fear it hath no weak spots worthy of the
name.  Nothing save hard fighting can win yon
fortalice, unless, as has of late been the case, the
garrison wax careless from long inaction and
freedom from alarums."

"Stratagem might effect its capture.  It is on
stratagem that I rely most for my own venture.  But
I would now fain bid thee good night, Sir Priest,
and thank thee for thy kindly information.
Perchance we shall meet again.  Come, Peter!"

"Good night, Sir Squire!  May ye prosper and
win your way both in and out of the blood-stained
lair of Black Eustace!  God speed!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Castle Ruthènes`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center large bold

   Castle Ruthènes

.. vspace:: 2

Early on the following day Edgar, accompanied
by Peter, reconnoitred Castle Ruthènes from the
shelter of the thick woods which stretched to within
less than a hundred yards of its walls.  In the light
of his knowledge of the castles of the time, Edgar
could study the stronghold with a real appreciation
of its strong and weak points.  Its chief
characteristic was a square central donjon, apparently of
great age, which towered high above the outer
walls.  These were somewhat low, though of a
very massive build, and appeared to belong to
a later date than the donjon, having probably
been thrown out as an additional screen against
a surprise attack.

About the walls ran a moat, fairly wide and
apparently deep, formed by a stream from the
mountains being dammed back and looped, so as
to complete the circumference of the walls.  The
castle stood in a hollow, and the moat ran
sluggishly at a level with the surrounding land, which
was boggy and springy, as though the water often
overflowed and covered it inches deep.  The place
seemed to reek with moisture, the walls being
mossgrown and discoloured; while the thick woods,
encroaching closely upon the narrow patch of
grassy plain, seemed to add to the forbidding,
cheerless air of the gloomy fortalice.

The outer walls were pierced in one spot only,
and that was at the main gateway.  Here the moat
was spanned by a drawbridge of modern appearance,
but Edgar could see no traces of a portcullis,
its place being taken by heavy oaken gates faced
with plates of iron.

Struck by the gloomy, unhealthy look of the
castle, Edgar could not help exclaiming in a voice
of deep concern:

"I hope, Peter, they have treated Sir John well.
The dungeons of such castles usually lie deep
below the level of the moat.  If they have immured
him in one of those I fear for him.  Sir John's
health hath suffered much from his many campaigns."

"I hope not, Master Edgar.  But we must hasten
the more to release him, though how 'tis to be done
I know not."

"We, or I, might perhaps gain entrance in
disguise, though that would mean a daylight entry,
and we should be under observation, and could
hardly hope to effect much.  Besides, since the
simple old priest so quickly penetrated our
disguise, I have lost faith in our abilities in that
direction--our tongue, I fear, betrayeth us all too
quickly."

Peter nodded in agreement.

"Come, let us make the full circuit of the walls,
Peter, keeping well within the shadow of the woods.
So far, I can see no way in save by scaling the
walls themselves."

"By a ladder?" queried Peter.

"Nay, a ladder would betray us, if not before
we entered, certainly at dawn the following morning.
Nay, but a rope and grapnel in patient hands
should win an entrance."

"A rope and grapnel!" cried Peter.  "A rope
we can doubtless obtain from someone among the
country folk, but where may we obtain a grapnel?"

"We can improvise one.  A sword wrapped in
cloths might be well lodged in the spaces betwixt
those blocks on the summit of the wall--thy steel
scabbard, Peter, with the rope tied to its middle,
flung up and properly lodged, would easily take
the weight of one of us.  Ha, 'tis easy after all!"

"But could we fling scabbard and rope to the
summit of the wall from the distance of the edge
of the moat?"

"'Twill certainly be a long throw.  Is there no
place where a bank at the bottom of the wall will
give us a footing?  Look closely, Peter, and see
if thou canst discern such a bank anywhere.  If
we can see none we must, when the time comes,
swim the whole circle of the walls and feel for one.
A footing in mud and water will serve our turn."

"I see something, Master Edgar.  See--where
that clump of reeds shows a foot above the water
against the walls--the bottom must be near the
surface there."

"Maybe--unless there be but soft mud.  Look
again, Peter--we must, if we can, find a place
where we can swing our rope full freely."

Before the circuit of the walls had been
completed, a place had been found where a low bank
lay between the moat and the foot of the wall.
This was hailed with satisfaction as a step in the
direction of scaling the outer defences of the castle,
and during the remainder of the day Edgar and
Peter sat down to watch all that went on, and
particularly what sentries were posted and how far their
observation extended.

Ere the day was out they had made up their
minds that a good watch was kept, and that the
slackness referred to by the priest had either never
existed or had recently, from one cause or another,
been entirely removed.  Two men-at-arms were
always upon the walls, keeping watch from opposite
angles, from which the whole extent of the outer
defences could be easily surveyed.  Another man
was posted at the gateway, to operate the
drawbridge and to keep a lookout upon all who came
to claim admittance.  These sentries, too, were not
only present, but appeared to be watchful and alert
to all that went forward.  Depressed at the evidence
of the keen watch kept, but elated at finding a bank
from which the rope and grapnel might be cast
with some chance of success, Edgar and Peter
returned to the poor dwelling at which they had
obtained temporary shelter, there to await the time
when their first attempt should be made.

As on the evening before, the priest appeared
and supped with them, more for company's sake
on this occasion, it seemed, than with any desire
to keep watch upon them and their movements.
Feeling a good deal of confidence in the kindly,
careworn face with the steady grey eyes, Edgar
told the priest what they had learned and how he
proposed to effect an entrance.  The news that the
garrison was keeping a careful watch seemed to
fill the priest with surprise and some concern.

"Can it be that they have heard of your arrival?"
he said.  "And yet if that were so 'twould not be
the posting of extra guards that I should expect,
but the sally of a score of their blood-stained
men-at-arms, who would pour into this village in an
iron stream as they have done so often before.
Ye would have been routed out, and within five
minutes the branches of the nearest tree would
have groaned beneath your weight.  That is what
has been before.  Why, then, have they posted
sentinels?  Nothing else hath occurred save the
arrival at the castle of a man who must indeed be
of some consequence, seeing that he was
accompanied by an escort of two men-at-arms."

"When did this man arrive?" asked Edgar quickly.

"On the morning of the day of your arrival--that
is, yesterday."

"Canst describe him to me?"

"I did not see the man, and those who reported
it to me, as all do the most trifling events, said that
they could see little of him, as his head was swathed
in bandages."

"It is he," murmured Edgar half to himself.

"Who?  Whom dost mean?  Dost know the
man?" cried the priest sharply.

"I fear so.  I think it must be this evil knight
of whom I have told thee.  The blow with which
I worsted him in the lists at Bordeaux was severe,
and I know that his head had to be much bandaged.
Then before I left I learned that he had already
gone.  'Tis he of a surety.  He hath followed his
victim."

"Can he know that thou art here?"

"I think not; but one cannot be sure, and he
will guess that I would not remain idle."

"Then it is this knight, this enemy of thine,
who hath caused the watch to be doubled.  'Twill
be the harder for thee to find a way in by thy
stratagem.  Hast brought a rope with thee?"

"No.  I must make enquiries and obtain one."

"I will do so for thee.  Thou wilt only arouse
suspicion and make folk talk.  Leave it to me,
Sir Squire."

Edgar thanked the priest warmly, and stipulated
that it should be both light and strong.  Then they
went on to talk of other things, and the priest told
Edgar stories of his work amongst the poor
peasantry.  Some were humoursome, others bright stories
illustrating the homely virtues of the folk and their
generosity one to another; but the greater part
were tales of cruelty and oppression, which made
Edgar's blood boil--tales of men tortured into
revealing where their little store of worldly wealth,
laid by with much self-denial, had been hidden
away; and tales of men done to death for their
"obstinacy", when they had no store whose whereabouts
they could reveal to satisfy their relentless
persecutors.  It all seemed almost incredible to
Edgar, until he recollected the stories he had heard
handed down of the deeds done in his own land
but a century or two before.

It was three days before Edgar obtained a rope
that he thought gave him the least hope of success
in the venture he had in hand.  The good priest
did all in his power, and scarce a rope in the
neighbourhood but was brought in and tried.  But
the ropes that the peasants possessed were rough
and heavy and in no way suited to Edgar's purpose.
In despair, at last he saddled his steed and
rode away to the nearest town and purchased one
there, returning by a forced march the same day.

That same night Peter and he, accompanied by
the priest, made their way into the woods
surrounding Castle Ruthènes.  By a stroke of good
fortune the night was a favourable one.  Heavy
clouds shrouded the light of the moon, and made
even the biggest objects loom black and indistinct.
A watcher on the walls would need the sharpest
eyes to see a figure at the foot, and with the
comforting feeling that all was so far going in their
favour the two young men took leave of the priest
at the edge of the wood and stole across the narrow
strip of sward.

"God be with thee!" the priest had whispered,
and with a pressure of the hand that Edgar now
knew to be the hand of a friend, he had bade them
adieu.

The point at which they left the woods was,
they knew, in a line with that part of the moat
where the low bank rose at the foot of the wall,
and as soon as they reached the edge of the water,
both slipped noiselessly in and swam gently towards
the castle walls.

Both were good swimmers, even Peter, in spite
of his infirmity, having long since learned to keep
himself afloat without difficulty.  Edgar carried
the line and the improvised grapnel, which had
been well swathed in cloths to ensure its falling
dully wherever it struck.  He also, wore his shirt
of mail and his sword.  The weight was considerable,
but he was too practised a swimmer for that
to trouble him for a few dozen yards, and he had a
decided objection to being quite defenceless when
he had gained entry into the enemy's quarters.

The water struck chill.  Heavy weeds that
appeared almost to choke the stream clung to their
legs and impeded their progress.  They could see
nothing save a wall of blackness that rose before
them forbiddingly.  All seemed to be as silent as
the tomb.

They were slow in making the passage, as their
one desire was to make no sound, but presently
they reached the side.  Touching bottom in several
feet of mud, they slowly raised themselves out of
the water and began to crawl up the bank.

Suddenly they were startled beyond measure by
a tremendous screech and flutter which arose from
right under their very noses.  In their amazement
and alarm they sprang back a couple of feet into
deep water with a splash, and then saw, or rather
heard, a flock of frightened ducks rise with a whirr
and cackle from the bank and fly above their heads
round the angle of the castle walls.

Deeply chagrined, the two young men crawled
from the moat upon the bank and lay there
listening intently.  Such a mischance they had never
dreamed of, and it seemed more than possible
that it might have alarmed one of the guards and
brought him to the spot to learn the cause of the
birds' alarm.  With deepest annoyance Edgar
upbraided himself for not observing that a flock of
half-wild ducks belonging to the castle had made
a home on the bank he had counted upon in his
plans.

For half an hour the two lay in the mud and
water without stirring, listening with all their ears
and gazing up at the outline of the top of the walls,
which they could discern dimly against the sky.
But the peering figures of the sentinels that they
half-expected to appear never came.

"All is well after all, I think, Peter," said Edgar
at last.  "That was a bad start indeed, and had I
not thought Sir John's need a most urgent one,
I should have been tempted to try another night.
But as 'tis, if any have marked the flutter and scare
they have doubtless thought them due to winged
enemies of the wild fowl, and not to those with
intent to disturb the peace of the castle.  Now let
us try the powers of the line and grapnel we
obtained after so much time and trouble.  'Twould
be hard indeed to find them fail us now."

The outer walls were comparatively low, little
more than twenty feet or so in height, and the
throw of the grapnel was not a very difficult one.
But it proved exceedingly difficult to obtain a
lodgment with it.  Time after time it was thrown
with success well over the wall, but the darkness
of the night forced them to fling it at random, and
as soon as a strain was put upon it, down it fell
again.

At last, however, it held fast even when the
weight of both was tried upon it, and, overjoyed,
Edgar instantly began to haul himself up hand
over hand until he reached the top.  Here he rested
arms and shoulders on the wall while he paused a
moment to listen.  All was quiet, however, and
drawing himself right up he signalled to Peter
with the rope that all was clear for him to ascend
in his turn.

In a few minutes both were safely on the wall,
crouching in the deepest shadows they could find.
The first stage of their enterprise had been
successfully accomplished, and though cold and wet and
shivering as with the ague, they felt elated that
they were well on the way to the accomplishment
of their formidable task.

"Draw up and coil the rope, Peter.  We must
take it with us, for doubtless we shall need it 'gainst
our return."

Peter silently obeyed.

"Now follow me quietly, lad," and Edgar led
the way softly along the wall, keeping well in the
shadow, until they reached a narrow flight of stone
steps that led down to the castle courtyard.  Against
them loomed the deep shadow of a corner turret,
and, thinking that this might possibly be a likely
place for a man-at-arms to be stationed on the
watch, Edgar paused and listened intently.

"Forward, Peter," he whispered; "Black Eustace
and his men are asleep, I verily believe."

"Black Eustace never sleeps," echoed a rough
voice from the blackness of the turret, and a dark
form sprang suddenly upon Edgar and nearly
brought him to the ground.  Other figures
followed, and in a twinkling Edgar and Peter were
struggling in the grip of half a dozen men.

"Slay them not--at present," commanded the
deep voice of the man who had first spoken.
"Bring torches and bind them well.  Then shall
we see who hath dared to set foot upon the walls
of the castle of Eustace de Brin--Black Eustace,
one of the knaves called me, did he?  We shall
see.  Mayhap he will be right."

It was but a spring from the walls to safety, and
Edgar struggled fiercely to fling off his many
assailants.  A desperate effort freed his right arm,
and a heavy blow rid him of one of them for a time.
But he was no nearer even temporary freedom, for
one of the men had clutched him firmly round the
waist from behind with one hand while with the
other he seized him by the hair and dragged his
head forcibly back.  Slowly but surely, notwithstanding
his most frantic efforts, Edgar found his
head dragged relentlessly back until his neck
seemed on the point of snapping beneath the cruel
strain.  To struggle on was hopeless, and, weak
from his exertions and with his senses nearly gone,
Edgar allowed his arms to be drawn behind his
back and there secured without further resistance.

Torches were brought.  One was thrust close to
Edgar's face--so close that his hair was singed
and his cheek scorched--and a man peered
searchingly at him.

.. _`"A TORCH WAS THRUST CLOSE TO EDGAR'S FACE"`:

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   "A TORCH WAS THRUST CLOSE TO EDGAR'S FACE"

"I know not the varlet," he growled, and Edgar
recognized the voice of the man who had first
spoken and who had admitted himself to be
Eustace de Brin.  "He seemeth not to belong to
these dogs of peasants who would dearly love to
bite the hand of their master an they got the
chance.  Here, camarade, perchance this is one of
the hounds thou hast feared might be on thy track."

A man who had held aloof from the struggle came
forward at the call, and Edgar, whose head had
now been released from its intolerable strain, had no
difficulty in recognizing, in spite of his bandages,
the fierce eyes and harsh visage of Sir Gervaise
de Maupas.  The recognition was mutual, for with
a shout of astonishment and savage joy, the knight
cried:

"It is!  It is!  This is none other than that
braggart esquire of whom I told thee, Eustace."

"What!  The boy who gave thee that clout in
the lists that nearly sent thee where thou art so
eagerly awaited?" cried De Brin with a loud laugh.

"Nay, Eustace," cried De Maupas, giving the
speaker no very friendly look.  "He is the boy
who played me a base trick that by an unfortunate
mischance I could not frustrate.  But he will play
me no more.  Give him to me, Eustace, as an
earnest of the goodwill thou hast so often spoken
of, but of which I have seen little enough solid
evidence; as some slight return, too, for the many
profitable ventures I have put thee in the way of."

"Well, well, we will talk more of that anon,
camarade Gervaise.  The disposal of the boy's body
is nothing to me, so long as he is punished for his
insolent daring in scaling the walls of my castle;
but first I must know how we stand in this business.
D'ye know the other man?"

Peter was next examined.  "Yes," growled the
knight, "this dog is one of the plotters.  He is
somewhat of a cripple--Baulch hath told me of
him--but is not too crippled to give us trouble.
Guard him well, Eustace, or thou wilt regret it."

"Ha! ha! ha! friend Gervaise, thou wilt, when
thou know'st me better, find that I have a shorter
way than that with those who might inconvenience
me did they but get the chance."

The words were spoken with meaning, and De
Maupas looked doubtfully at the speaker, as though
neither liking nor understanding what he meant.
"If thou meanest to imply----" he began at length.

"Lead on, men," cried Eustace de Brin, taking
no notice of his friend.  "Conduct the prisoners to
the strongest cell beneath the donjon and see them
fast.  Duprez, thou wilt have to answer for
them--so guard them well."

Down the stone steps Edgar and Peter were
marched until they reached the courtyard.  Here
several of the men-at-arms left them, and, escorted
only by Duprez and one other, they skirted the
massive walls of the donjon until they came to a
small low door.  Through this door they were
hurried, and found themselves in what seemed to
be a vast system of underground passages and
vaults which must have dated back to the remoter
days of the first beginnings of the castle.  Some
of the vaults were below the donjon, while others
seemed to burrow beneath the flagstones of the
courtyard.

By the light of a single torch they were
conducted along a passage whose gloomy arched walls
echoed back the sound of their footsteps with a sullen
insistence that seemed to make them contract yet
more closely upon the unhappy prisoners.  Presently
they reached an ancient, monastic-looking
cell, which they judged to be one of those situated
beneath the courtyard.  Into this they were roughly
thrust.  The torch was stuck into an iron ring above
the doorway, and by its light Duprez and his assistant
proceeded to release the arms of their prisoners
from their bonds, and to load them afresh with
heavy iron shackles which had been hanging ready
for use from a hook upon the wall.  The chamber
was dank and heavy with moisture, and the shackles
were thickly coated with rust, wet and smeary to
the touch.

"Thou wilt find these safe enough for all their
looks," growled Duprez, as he shackled Edgar's
right arm to his left leg and his left arm to his
right leg, so that he could barely stand upright.
"These shackles have held secure captives as strong
as thou--aye, and men of noble and knightly birth.
Not once in my time has their grip relaxed until
death claimed their victims.  Sir Eustace said I
would have to answer for thee--I object not to that,
ha! ha!"

"'Tis a poor thing to make merry at thy prisoners'
expense," replied Edgar shortly.

Duprez stared at him as though scarcely
comprehending his meaning.  Probably the sentiment
was foreign to him.  Then he turned to Peter and
trussed him in similar fashion, growling half to
himself:

"Cripple though thou art, 'twill be as well to
shackle thee.  After all, 'tis an honour to treat
thee as a man of sound limbs, so let that thought
comfort thee 'gainst thy pleasant stay in the
dungeons of Ruthènes.  Come, Rolfe, pick up their
swords and daggers, and let us be off to our beds.
Long enough have we spent over this business."

Sardonically bidding them good night, Duprez
and his man left the chamber, carrying with them
the torch and the weapons they had taken from their
prisoners.  The door clanged heavily to behind
them, and Edgar and Peter were left in total darkness
to think over their most perilous situation, and
to wonder for how much of it they had to thank their
old foe, Sir Gervaise de Maupas.





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.. _`Prisoners`:

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   CHAPTER XIII


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   Prisoners

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Worn out and dispirited, Edgar and Peter sank
to the floor and lay there motionless.  Their sudden
capture, after so successful a beginning, was a
stunning blow, and though neither was easily
discouraged, they needed time and thought to recover
from it.

After a time they grew drowsy, and presently
forgot their troubles in sleep.  When they awoke
they judged it to be broad daylight.  Their cell
was still in semi-darkness, the only light that
entered coming from a grating high up at the
summit of the arched stone roof.  This grating,
Edgar calculated from his recollection of the trend
of the passages they had traversed, was on a level
with the flagstones of the courtyard.

The priest had told Edgar something of the history
of the castle, and from the appearance of the
cell he came to the conclusion that the network of
underground dungeons and passages belonged to
its more ancient days, and had been left intact when
it had been partially pulled down and rebuilt.  The
conclusion brought him little additional hope, for
the walls were massively built of stone, and seemed
to have been but slightly affected by the lapse of
time.

"Canst think of any plan, Peter, by which we
may effect our escape?" asked Edgar, when he had
carefully weighed all the chances in his own mind.

"Nay, unless we can reach up to the grating by
standing on one another's shoulders."

"With these shackles?  I fear there is little hope
there, unless we can first rid ourselves of these
irons."

"Yes, we must knock off our shackles first.  As
thou know'st, Master Edgar, I was an armourer's
assistant, and know something of chains and rivets.
If there be any weak spots I can find them, and
shall know how to deal with them.  Had they left
us but a dagger it would not have been long, I'll
warrant thee, before we moved our limbs in freedom."

"Yes, yes; but it must be done without a dagger.
And before we start we must have some plan by
which to escape when our shackles are off.  'Twould
be useless to remove them only to be discovered by
Duprez on his next visit.  They would be replaced
by a stronger pair, and our plight would be
hopeless indeed.  We must have a plan first.  What
doth the door offer?  Let us examine it carefully."

Both moved eagerly to the door.  As they did so
their chains clanked hideously, making a sound
that seemed to strike into their hearts with dread,
bringing irresistibly home to them their desperate
position.

"Of a truth, it would be worth much to be rid of
these shameful bonds alone," cried Edgar passionately.
"Nevertheless, we must not think of it until
we have our plans ready formed to our hands, Peter.
Ha!  'Tis as I feared.  This door belongeth not to
the age when these walls were built.  It is of far
later make, and seems prodigiously strong--shake
it and feel its weight, Peter."

Peter did so, and then stood back and gave a
despondent shake of the head.  "Had they left us
a piece of metal, however small, Master Edgar, we
might in time have scraped a hole through the door
around the lock and so opened it.  But they have
left nothing with me.  Art sure they have left thee
nothing?"

"They have left me nothing, Peter.  They have
taken my purse and all it contains, so that not even
a coin remains for such a task.  But stay--they
have not touched my shirt of mail.  Perchance we
might do something with a few of its links, small
as they are."

"Let us try--but hush, Master Edgar, someone
approaches.  I hear footsteps in the passage
outside."

Both held their peace, and then, at a gesture
from Edgar, sat down again on the stones in an
attitude of dejection.  A key grated in the lock of
the door, and with much creaking and groaning
the door was opened.  Two men were outside--Duprez
and another man, a stranger to Edgar.
One bore an armful of rugs and the other some
rough cakes and a pitcher, probably containing
water.

"Thy bedding," grunted Duprez surlily.  "Here,
Guilbert, fling it in yon corner.  Thou art lucky,"
he went on, turning to Edgar, "to get as much."

"Lucky indeed," replied Edgar in a tone of
weary indifference; "but can thine other prisoner
spare the rugs?"

"Aye, they belong not--But what know ye--why
talk ye of another prisoner?" cried Duprez
savagely, as he began to suspect that he had told
too much.

"Oh, nothing!  Surely one might guess ye had
other prisoners in so large a castle.  Is this our
food, friend Duprez?  They do not intend to starve
us at any rate.  Doubtless we may expect a meal
twice or thrice in the day?"

"Ye may expect me when ye see me," cried the
man harshly.  "Ye would like me to tell ye all,
I make no doubt.  Get ye to your food, and cease
to bandy words with me, or it may chance you will
lose all appetite."

"Hast ever found thy prisoners kept their
appetites in such noisome and dismal dungeons as
these?" cried Edgar indignantly.  "Didst thou
take away the desire to eat, doubtless 'twould but
do the work this cell will do as surely in a few
short weeks."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Duprez with great zest.
"Thou art a sharp fellow.  'Tis very true.  My
customers soon lose appetite, and finding they do
not appreciate my trouble in bringing them their
food, sometimes I forget it for a day or two.
Ha! ha!  It saves a lot of trouble in the end, and Sir
Eustace makes no bones."

"Begone! callous brute that ye are," cried Edgar,
jumping to his feet in a burst of involuntary
indignation.  "Kill us outright an ye be a man."

Duprez's merriment instantly vanished, and was
succeeded by a burst of passion that he made no
attempt to hold in check.  "Silence, knave!" he
cried savagely, as he struck Edgar violently on the
mouth with his clenched fist.  He then gave the
pitcher his man had brought a vicious kick that
dashed it into fragments, and, turning on his heel,
sullenly left the cell.

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As soon as they had eaten the cakes still left to
them, Edgar and Peter began to ponder means of
escape.  The shirt of mail was tried, and several
links obtained after much labour, but they were so
small and so unsuited to the purpose the two had
dimly in view that after a few minutes' trial the
idea was given up in disgust.  Even if it escaped
detection, an attempt by such means would have
taken so long as to be almost hopeless of success.

During the remainder of the day Duprez never
came near the prisoners.  Doubtless he had counted
upon his destruction of the pitcher inflicting much
suffering upon them.  But happily the water had
splashed upon the oaten cakes, and had wetted
them so thoroughly that they had rather helped to
assuage the pangs of thirst than added to them.

As near as the pair could judge, it was late on the
afternoon of the second day when they again heard
footsteps outside the door.  Their first thought was
that Duprez and his man were returning at last;
but as the footsteps came nearer they gathered that
only one person was approaching, and that
probably that someone was more lightly shod than
either of their jailers.  The door opened, and to
their astonishment Sir Gervaise de Maupas entered.

At the sight of him Edgar involuntarily sprang
to his feet, dominated for the moment by feelings
of anger and excitement.

De Maupas raised his hand and calmly waved
him back.  "It seems thou art surprised to see
me," he said easily.  "Thou wilt, I think, be
more so when thou hast learned somewhat of mine
errand and found how magnanimous I can be."

With an effort, Edgar mastered his indignation
and simply nodded his head as though waiting to
hear more before accepting such a statement.  The
knight spoke with quiet confidence.  Most of his
bandages were now gone, and he seemed himself
again and sure that the errand on which he had
come would end as he desired.

"What ye have learned of me," he went on,
pacing slowly up and down the narrow limits of
the cell, "doubtless ye have learned from Sir John.
Well, know this, that Sir John is the lifelong
enemy of me and mine, and the fault of it lies not
with me but with him.  Aught that he hath told
ye to my disadvantage is therefore not to be relied
upon, for he hateth me and maligns me for his own
base purposes.  He is no true knight, and ye are
mistaken in espousing his cause.  I have told you
the truth, so that ye may know that ye are
honourably released from all allegiance to him."

"But if thou art the true knight thou sayest,
how comes it that thou art staying as a friend in
the castle of this Eustace de Brin, a knight of ill
reputation and one of the enemies of our country?"

De Maupas frowned and momentarily checked
his stride.  "That is a long story," he said.  "I
am here out of no alliance with the enemies of our
country; rather indeed to further its interests, for I
am gaining much useful knowledge.  But thou art
indeed right when thou sayest the owner of this
grim castle is a man of ill reputation.  The scenes
these cells have beheld would appal the stoutest
heart could they be unfolded.  Beware, then, that
thou sharest not the fate of thy predecessors.  Sir
Eustace, I know, is deeply enraged with thee.  He
says thou art the first man to dare enter his castle
without his permission, and he purposes to slay
thee.  Knowing thee for a fellow countryman, I
intervened, and with such influence as I possess
begged him to allow me to offer thee a hope of
life--life in the open air and sunshine, not cooped
within the narrow limits of a cell that must sooner
or later drive thee mad.  Say then, dost desire to
accept my offer?"

"What is this offer?" asked Edgar shortly.
"We are ready enough to leave this cell, as thou
canst well imagine.  But we must carry our honour
unsullied with us."

"I will watch over thine honour as I would over
mine own," cried De Maupas emphatically.  Then,
not noticing the half-smile his declaration had
conjured up, he went on, "Ye may have heard that I
claim to be the rightful owner of the estates now
held by Sir John Chartris?  Mine they are, and
I hold that he is keeping me out of them by nothing
less than trickery and fraud.  I have vowed to meet
trickery by trickery, fraud by fraud, and I have, as
ye know, captured Sir John and am holding him
to ransom.  My price for his release is an
acknowledgment of my better claim to the estates.  What
could be more reasonable?  Unfortunately, for
himself as well as for me, he is proving obstinate.  He
will not yield his ill-gotten lands, and in my good
nature, desiring not to do him hurt, I have cast
about and found a way out of the difficulty.  He
shall keep the lands, but must assist me to the best
of his power to win compensation in another direction.
That is most fair, is it not, young sir?  You
see, I am trusting you fully, well knowing the justice
of my cause."

"Yes, yes," replied Edgar quickly, "but what
is this compensation?"  The knight's tone and
bearing were so smooth and peaceable, and he
seemed in so reasonable a frame of mind, that
Edgar's opinion of him, well grounded though it
was, was almost shaken.

"'Tis simply this.  I am deeply enamoured of
his ward, Beatrice d'Alençon, and would fain win
her hand in marriage.  All I ask are his good
offices and influence to aid my suit.  Could I be
more magnanimous towards one whom I regard as
a lifelong foe?"

Utterly astounded at the extraordinary change of
front, for a moment Edgar could but gape.  Then
he recovered himself and asked quickly, "But thou
know'st not the lady D'Alençon.  Thou hast, to
my knowledge, spoken not one word to her.  How
then canst say thou art enamoured of her?"

"How could I approach her?  My enmity with
Sir John was so great that I should but have
exposed myself to humiliation had I tried to make
her closer acquaintance.  As it was, I was forced to
worship from afar."

"De Maupas, thou art twice her age and more,
and I find it hard indeed to believe thy story.  Her
lands are wide, and in their breadth alone I fear
thy love has found its birth."

"It is not so, Edgar Wintour.  I have a real
fancy for the maid, though I would not deny that
her lands are of importance in my eyes.  But I
am a knight of birth; one too, who, if he had his
rights, would own lands as wide and rich as hers.
Therefore it seemeth to me that I am a fitting match
for Beatrice d'Alençon.  But enough of explanations.
I am about to make the offer to Sir John,
and to thee I make an offer no less generous.  Aid
me in persuading Sir John and after, and ye shall
both go free.  Refuse, and ye must rot in this
loathsome dungeon--rot or go mad: one or other is as
certain in the course of a few weeks as it is certain
that Gervaise de Maupas stands before thee."

Our hero was undoubtedly staggered at the offer
so skilfully held out as an honourable exchange for
Sir John's life and the claims De Maupas had long
laid to his estates.  Sir John's life was all
important in Edgar's eyes, and could a means be found
by which it might be honourably saved the loss of
the estates of either ward or guardian weighed with
him but little by comparison.  The offer of De
Maupas was therefore not one to be dismissed
without consideration.  He therefore took refuge
in silence, while he tried to wrest any hidden
motives for the offer there might be from the
network of clever words in which he half-feared De
Maupas had shrouded his real plans.

There could be no doubt that Sir John had
refused to purchase his life at the expense of his
estates and the rights of his successors.  That
much was clear from De Maupas's presence in the
cell that moment.  Foiled in his first move, and
unwilling to take Sir John's life while some profit
might be made of it, he had bethought him of a
plan by which he might purchase his rights and
influence over his ward, the lady Beatrice.  Her
lands were even wider and richer than her guardian's,
and the wily plotter had hit upon a way of
obtaining them that would, he knew, pass muster
readily enough as knightly and honourable.

The story of his passion for her was doubtless
trumped up for the occasion, to give an air of
romance and honourable dealing to what was little
more than barefaced robbery.  Nevertheless, it was
a story that would be widely believed, though that
Beatrice must and always would loathe the man,
Edgar felt not the slightest doubt.

It was more than probable, too, that De Maupas
had already broached his plan to Sir John, and,
meeting with a rebuff, had bethought him of
Edgar and hoped to obtain his aid in persuading
his master.  The more Edgar thought over the
scheme, however, and the more he stripped it of
its trappings of pretended love and romance, the
more he felt it to be every whit as shameful as the
first plan by which De Maupas had sought to
obtain the Wolsingham lands by threats and violence.

"What is to be your answer to my generous
offer, young sir?" said De Maupas at length.  He
still paced slowly to and fro the length of the cell,
and his bearing was as easy and confident as ever.
Edgar, however, had been not unheedful of the
quick furtive glances he had cast at him every now
and again as he turned in his stride.

"I will have no part in this matter, De Maupas,"
Edgar replied quickly.  "I trust thee not, and
much of thy story I cannot believe.  More than
that, I am not ready to purchase my life at another's
expense."

"It is Sir John's life, too, that thou art casting
away like a fool," cried De Maupas angrily.

"Sir John hath, I doubt not, already told thee
that he prefers death to dishonour.  I, his esquire,
say the same, on both his account and my own."

A malignant look flamed up on the knight's face,
and Edgar knew that he had judged his plans and
motives aright.

"Death thou certainly shalt have, boy--I have
sworn it long since," cried De Maupas furiously,
placing his hand on his dagger as though he longed
to carry his threat into instant execution.  "But if
thou think'st to obtain an honourable death with
thy blood coursing warmly through thy veins, thou
wilt be mistaken.  Slowly, inch by inch, in silence
and despair, shalt thou die--not with the plaudits
of thousands ringing in thine ears as when, like
a mad fool, thou didst brave my lifelong anger.
Bah!  I shall yet see thee blench and, cringing at
my feet, beg for thy life and a glimpse of open air
and sky.  I can tell thee that the past has shown
that these monkish walls have a secret of their own
for crushing wills stronger far than thine."

As he spoke the last few words the knight eyed
Edgar with a gaze so stern and menacing that it
seemed as though he hoped by its very intensity to
cow him into submission.

"Never will I cringe to thee, Gervaise de Maupas,"
cried Edgar hotly, returning him look for look.

"We shall see," growled De Maupas savagely,
as he turned sharply on his heel and left the cell,
jerking the door to with a dull crash behind him.





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.. _`A Desperate Venture`:

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   CHAPTER XIV


.. class:: center large bold

   A Desperate Venture

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As soon as the excitement caused by the sudden
appearance of De Maupas had begun to subside,
Edgar recollected something that he had heard
while the interview was proceeding, but which he
had then no time to dwell upon.  This was a
strange sound, muffled and indistinct as though
coming from a distance, which, having no opportunity
for listening attentively, he had been unable
to define.  It might have been, he now thought,
the cry of an animal or even of some human being
in distress.

"Didst hear what sounded like distant cries
while the door stood open, Peter?"

"I did, Master Edgar.  They sounded strange
and unearthly and I could make nothing of them.
I heard the like when Duprez brought us food
yesterday, but took no heed."

"Ah!  Can it be that they are torturing Sir John
to compel him to yield compliance with their
infamous projects?" exclaimed Edgar, beginning to
pace restlessly up and down the cell as well as his
shackles would permit.  "De Maupas and this
Black Eustace are, I verily believe, capable of
deeds every whit as base and pitiless."

"Thinkest thou so?" cried Peter excitedly.
"Then let us spring upon our jailers and, if need
be, perish in an effort to save our master from so
fearful a fate."

"Truly it is intolerable that we should remain
supine here," replied Edgar in a voice vibrating
with emotion, "but to attack our jailers, shackled
as we are, would mean, I fear, but certain defeat.
Would I could think of some way--but, yes, I have
't!  Dost see yon bracket above the door?"

"Aye, sir, what wouldst do?  Tear it down and
use it as a weapon?"

"Nay, it looks to be embedded so deeply in the
masonry that 'twould need weeks of work to loosen
it.  My thought was that could I climb upon it I
might, at his next entry, spring upon Duprez all
unawares.  My weight and the shock of it might
well rid us of him for the time and leave us two,
shackled and without weapons, to face one man
armed.  Joyfully will we not accept the odds?"

"Aye, to that," cried Peter eagerly.  "The plan
soundeth well if the bracket will hold thy weight,
and thou canst reach up to get upon it all cumbered
with thine irons."

"Let us try, Peter.  Stand close against the
door and let me climb upon thy shoulders.  Though
I cannot move my hands higher than my waist, I
think I can yet make shift to clamber up."

The bracket above the door on to which Edgar
was endeavouring to climb consisted of a thick bar
of iron with a socket, into which Duprez had thrust
the torch when he had first entered the cell with his
prisoners.  It was thickly crusted with rust, but
was so massive that it seemed likely enough that
it would more than bear Edgar's weight.

After a few minutes' clambering he managed to
perch himself upon the bar, and by resting his
back flat against the wall, could hold himself
steady in his difficult position.  Did Duprez and
his man enter while he was in that position, it
seemed easy to leap upon one of them and to bear
him to the ground with crushing force.

"It offers good hopes of freedom, Peter!"
exclaimed Edgar exultingly as he clambered with
difficulty down from his dizzy position.  "If we
can overcome our two jailers, we shall be able to
don their cloaks and issue forth freely.  Did we
only dare wait for darkness, we should, I doubt
not, be able to reach the walls with little chance
of discovery."

"They have taken our ropes," observed Peter.

"A plunge from the walls into the moat will
not come amiss if Sir John be not injured.  We
can flounder out and be hidden in the woods ere
ever the drawbridge can be lowered.  What is it,
Peter?  Hast heard something?"

"Yes, yes, I think I can hear footsteps in the
distance outside.  Quickly, Master Edgar--wilt
thou not clamber up above the door and be ready?"

Hastily Edgar prepared to climb, but before he
was halfway up he heard sounds that brought him
leaping to the ground.  Placing his ear to one
of the cracks of the door, he listened with agonized
attention.  Again in the distance he could hear the
strange wails and screams which he had heard
before.

"Listen, Peter, and tell me what ye think."

Peter obeyed.  "I can make no more of it than
before," he remarked after a pause.  "The sounds
seem like nothing that I----But hark!  I can hear
the sound of footsteps coming and going.  We
shall have Duprez here anon."

But the two prisoners were left undisturbed.  The
noise of footsteps died away, and with it the
strange sounds that had so puzzled and alarmed
Edgar--nay, alarmed him still, for he could not
help connecting the sounds with Sir John, and
feared that his ruthless enemies might be torturing
or tormenting him into acquiescence in their plans.
The more he thought of it the more he felt that
such might be the case, and the more impatient
he became to escape and hasten to his master's aid.

"Come, Peter," he cried at last, "we shall do
little more by taking thought.  At the next visit
of Duprez we must try conclusions.  Aid me to
practise mounting rapidly to the bracket, so that
when we next hear footsteps I may be prepared
for action without loss of time."

For half an hour Edgar practised until he could
clamber up and get ready with great rapidity.
Night had by that time fallen, and as it seemed
unlikely that Duprez would visit them again that
day, they gathered the rugs together and disposed
themselves to sleep.

Scarcely had they dozed off, however, when they
were awakened by the sound of footsteps close at
hand and by the glint of a light beneath the door.
The moment of their opportunity had come!
Duprez was doubtless at the door.

With feverish impatience, Edgar hastened to the
door and began to clamber up to his station.  His
movements were cramped and impeded by his
shackles and the absolute necessity that no
clanking of chains should warn their jailers that the
prisoners were up and doing.  Ere he had fully
gained his coign of vantage the key was grating
in the lock, and Peter had barely time to scuttle
back to the farthest corner of the cell and to crouch
down among the rugs, feigning sleep, before the
door began to swing back upon its hinges.

"Come, ye proud varlets, ye are honoured tonight.
Sir Eustace desires speech with you.  Ha,
ha!  Much comfort to you 'twill be, I'll warrant."

As he spoke Duprez strode into the cell,
followed by another man who carried a torch, which
he raised above his head to catch a glimpse of
the prisoners.

With a sudden spring, Edgar flung himself
down upon the torchbearer, landing full upon him
and crushing him to the ground with stunning
force.  The torch spun from his hand into a corner,
and lay there spluttering in the damp, shedding
a feeble, fitful light upon the scene.  With a loud
shout of alarm, Duprez grasped his sword by the
hilt and strove to pluck it from its sheath.  Before
he could do so, however, Edgar had sprung upon
him from the rear, whilst Peter seized him round
the legs from the front.  Down he went headlong,
struggling furiously and shouting for aid, until
Edgar grasped him by the throat and choked the
sound with a grip of iron.  Meanwhile the man
who had borne the torch lay without a movement.
His forehead had struck the flagstones with a force
that had rendered him unconscious.

"Tear me some strips from yon rugs," cried
Edgar in a minute or two, when Duprez,
half-choked and fully mastered, had begun to relax
his struggles.  "Take this dagger--quick!"

Peter drew the dagger from its sheath, and in
a few seconds had slit off some strips of hide from
the rough sheepskin rugs.  With these Edgar
bound Duprez's arms securely behind his back.
The other man was then trussed in similar fashion,
though, so far, he had shown no sign of returning
consciousness.

"Peter," continued Edgar with breathless energy
as soon as their jailers were secure, "place the
torch upright against the wall and bend all thine
energies to ridding thyself and me of our shackles.
We have two swords and a dagger.  That should
be sufficient for an armourer's assistant.  Get
quickly to work, or it will be too late.  Be silent
if thou canst."

He then turned to Duprez.

"Dost wish to live, scoundrel?" he said sternly.
"Thou knowest as certainly as we do that our lives
are forfeit if taken--dost then think we are likely
to spare thee?  What dost bid for thy life?"

"What want ye?" gasped Duprez, whose face
was livid and full of fear as the wild shackled
figure stooped over him, grasping a dagger
snatched from the belt of the other man.

"A few words--no more.  But they may spell
life to thee."

"Ask."

"Where is Sir John Chartris?"

"The other prisoner--the man who came a week
agone?"

"Yes, a man of knightly bearing, aged some
forty years."

"He is in this donjon, in a room near Sir
Eustace.  He was in one of these cells but a few
hours since."

"What!  Was his, then, the voice we heard?
You have tortured him, inhuman monsters!" and
Edgar, in his anger, thrust the point of the dagger
so close to Duprez's neck that the man winced
with fear.

"Nay, nay, good sir, we have tortured him not.
He contracted a fever two days after he came, and
is wild with delirium.  Sir Eustace feared to lose
him if he kept him in these dungeons, and had
him taken to a room halfway up the keep."

"Ah!  Tell me how I may reach this room."

Sullenly the man obeyed.

"These keys at thy belt.  Which is the key of
Sir John's room?"

Again the man gave the information desired,
and Edgar, satisfied that he had obtained all that
he required, stripped him of his cloak and then
gagged him effectively with pieces torn from the
rugs.  In his elation he could have shouted for
joy.  Sir John was ill, but if all went well before
another hour had gone he would at least be free.

By this time Peter had rid himself of one of his
shackles and the other was nearly shorn through.
The shackles, though thick and heavy, were soft
and rusty, and were an easy problem to an
armourer's assistant in possession of well-tempered
swords and a dagger.  In a few more minutes he
was free to attack Edgar's bonds in their turn.
Soon he also could stretch his limbs in freedom.

"Well done, Peter!  Now strip that man of his
cloak and put it on.  Gird on sword and dagger,
roll up the rugs, and let us be off.  Sir Eustace is
awaiting us, and unless we act at once our chance
will be lost for ever."

"'Tis so, Master Edgar.  We have indeed little
time to lose.  If Sir Eustace waxeth impatient, he
may send other men to look for the first."

"Yes, 'tis unfortunate that it was to fetch us to
Sir Eustace that Duprez came; but that cannot be
helped, and at least 'tis night, and the greater part
of the castle inmates will be asleep.  In these
cloaks we shall be able to pass along unmolested,
if so be we can avoid Black Eustace whilst
bringing out Sir John."

Taking up the torch, Edgar left the grim cell,
closely followed by Peter, and shut the door behind
him.  They were free for the moment--free until
Sir Eustace grew impatient at the tardy return of
his messengers and set out to enquire the reason.

As rapidly as possible the two young men
traversed the ghostly underground passages and
ascended a narrow winding staircase of stone
towards the room in which Duprez had said Sir
John was now lodged.  It was found without difficulty,
for, to their horror, as they neared the spot
they heard the selfsame cries that had so startled
them before.  It seemed that Duprez had spoken
truly, and as he reached the door it was with a
trembling hand that Edgar thrust the key into
the lock.

The room was in darkness, but by the light of
the torch held on high he saw Sir John.  He was
alone, but on a table near by were food and drink,
which seemed to have been placed there not long
since.  The knight lay on a couch fully clothed,
and was staring straight up at the ceiling, tossing
his arms and shouting.  At the noise of Edgar's
entry and the light of the torch, he ceased for a
moment, and, lifting his head, stared at the
newcomers with eyes that seemed to search without
the power of thought.  Then his head fell back,
and he resumed his wild shouting and tossing.

"Thou shalt see, false knight--think'st to bend
to thy will a true knight of England?  Infamous
proposals!  Worthy Gervaise de Maupas and grim
Eustace of Ruthènes!  The earl shall know--at
last I tell thee--the time will come."

"Sir John, Sir John," cried Edgar breathlessly,
"we are come to set thee free!  Canst bear to be
lifted, my lord?"

"Hark, I hear the tramp of men!  From the
woods and mountains--they come--black knight
of Ruthènes.  They come to avenge--dreadful
deeds.  Full reparation shall they exact----"

"Be silent, I beseech thee, Sir John!" cried
Edgar in desperation, as he realized how fearfully
difficult would be the task of conveying the sick
knight from out the castle did he persist in his
wild cries.  Then he placed his arm round him
soothingly and tried to still his restless tossings,
talking quietly to him the while.  "See, now,
Sir John, we are going to take thee to the lady
Gertrude.  She shall tend thee.  Keep thee still
and all shall be well.  Talk not so, dear Sir John,
but rest thy head on my shoulder.  Soon shall we
be out of this fearsome castle and breathe freely
the open air of heaven."  Then in an urgent
whisper he went on: "Come, Peter, there is not
an instant to be lost.  He is quieting.  Wrap
those rugs around him and take him gently by
the legs.  I will bear his head and shoulders."

For the moment the knight's cries sank into
indistinct murmurs.  He seemed to feel that friends
at last were around him, and to be content to resign
himself quietly into their hands.

"Whither shall I lead?" whispered Peter, as he
opened the door and prepared to issue forth.

"Boldly down the stairs, which should be at the
end of the passage.  They lead to the main door
into the courtyard.  If any see us 'twill be Duprez
and his man conveying the sick prisoner to another
chamber.  If any seek to know more we must silence
them, and then on."

"Dare we ascend the walls with Sir John in such
sore plight, Master Edgar?"

"Nay, 'tis to the drawbridge we must go.  We
cannot lower a sick man from the walls into the
castle moat.  We must surprise the sentinel at the
gates, and lower away before the alarm is sounded.
If only Sir John will keep as quiet as he is now, we
may count upon taking the guard unawares.  He
will doubtless be facing outwards to the foe, and
not inwards to the silent courtyard."

Leaving their torch behind them, the two young
men crept slowly and silently along the passage
with their burden.  Halfway along they turned a
corner and came full upon a door which stood
half-open close by.  Light streamed forth, and inside
they could hear the regular thud of ironclad heels
as a man paced slowly up and down.

Somehow the sound seemed to excite the sick
knight they were bearing beyond endurance.
Springing suddenly half out of their arms, he cried
with tremendous energy:

"To-morrow--in the lists--shalt thou answer for
thy crimes, Gervaise de Maupas.  At the point of
lance or sword--will I prove thy baseness.  *Laissez
aller*!  On! on!  Good steed--stout lance--do thy
devoir.  Hah!  De Maupas, thou art down--yield
thee----"

"What have we here?" came in a voice of
thunder from the room, and the door was flung
wide open by a hand rough and strong.  In the
doorway, standing out clearly against the light,
appeared the short, thick figure of Eustace de Brin,
clad from head to foot in dull black armour.

"Back, Peter, back!" whispered Edgar in a
voice of desperation.  "Carry Sir John, and return
the way we came.  I must defend the rear against
this wolf of Ruthènes.  Be rapid, on thy life and
ours!"

Relinquishing his share of the burden to his
companion, Edgar drew his sword and prepared
to defend himself against the attack he knew must
come from Sir Eustace.  For a moment, however,
the latter could see nothing save shadowy figures
hovering in the gloom.  Sir John had again fallen
silent, as though exhausted by his furious outburst.

"Is that thee, Duprez?  Art come at last, ye
tardy rascal?  And what was yon shouting?  It
sounded like the voice of the mad knight, Chartris.
Speak, man! hast lost thy voice?"

Receiving no answer, the speaker, with an angry
threat, plunged back into his room, and, plucking
a torch from the wall, sprang out into the passage,
sword in hand.

Edgar instantly attacked him.  Aiming at the
torch held on high, he severed it in twain at the
first blow.  The lighted end dropped down upon
the black knight's chest, and from thence to the
floor in front of him.  Lunging forward to the
attack once more, Edgar set his foot upon it and
plunged the passage in total darkness, while his
sword rattled vengefully against Sir Eustace's
harness.

With a cry of impotent fury Sir Eustace sprang
back into the room he had left.  In the light of the
falling torch he had recognized in his adversary
the esquire whom he had imprisoned and for whom
he was even at that moment impatiently waiting.
He had come, indeed, but scarcely in the manner
he had expected.

"Thou art mine still!" he shouted madly over
his shoulder.  "Dearly shalt thou pay for thine
insolence!"

Freed for the moment, Edgar turned and sped
down the passage as fast as the pitchy darkness
would allow.  But before he had caught up Peter
the quick sharp clang of the alarm bell of the castle
rang out with insistent clangour upon the stillness
of the night.  Instantly shouts and cries arose from
all sides as the Ruthènes household and garrison
sprang excitedly from their beds.  Sir Eustace had
lost no time in summoning the castle to arms, and
to all appearances Edgar and his companions were
caught in the iron jaws of a trap.

"We are lost, Master Edgar," cried Peter
despairingly, as Edgar caught him up at the head of
the winding staircase which, led downward to the
dungeons they had left.  "The alarm is sounded,
and 'tis impossible that we can escape in face of the
castle garrison."

"Courage, Peter!" cried Edgar.  "Let me aid
thee with Sir John.  There is still a slender thread
of hope left to us, and we must follow it."

"But why to our dungeons?  Dost desire only to
sell our lives as dearly as possible?"

"Nay, Peter.  Dost not remember that just before
we parted from the priest he spoke of a legend
among his folk which told of the existence of an
underground passage leading from out the castle?
As we came from our dungeon a while since, didst
not note the flight of stone steps that plunged yet
deeper into the bowels of the earth?  Our only
chance is that the legend is true, and I feel a
mighty hope that 'tis so.  Onward, lad, onward!"

"But surely there will be gates to either end
which we must pass?"

"We have Duprez's keys, and by God's will
they will open all doors.  Press on!  Already I
hear the tramp of men along the passages above.
See, 'tis the glint of torches in the distance.  We
are but a minute ahead of despair."

As he spoke they reached level ground at the
foot of the winding stairs, and at the entrance to
the passage which led into the labyrinth of
dungeons.  Feeling about, Edgar found the stone steps
which he had noticed as he passed, and which at
the time had made him wonder momentarily whither
they could lead, yet deeper into the earth.  Groping
and stumbling, the two lads found their way to
the bottom with their burden.  As they had
half-expected, they found farther progress barred by
a massive iron-studded door.

Groping down the side, Edgar found a keyhole
and inserted a key.  It did not fit.  Another and
another he tried with feverish impatience.  The
sound of voices and approaching footsteps every
moment grew in volume.  The search party was
already at the foot of the winding staircase, and
entering the passage to the dungeons.  The light
of the torches they carried grew until Edgar could
dimly make out the outline of the door which alone,
for the moment, stood between them and safety.

Another key--and with a sigh of relief Edgar
felt it sink into the lock.  A turn with all his
strength, and the rusty wards slowly and gratingly
yielded.  At the very moment when the pursuers
reached the head of the stairs above them the door
slowly opened, letting out a waft of dank, earthy
air that even in their extremity gave them pause.
Pitchy foul blackness stretched before them, but
behind were the savage retainers of the black
knight of Ruthènes.

Suddenly a torch was flung down the narrow
flight of steps.  Doubtless someone among the
searchers above had heard a noise, or suspected
that the darkness below perhaps hid the fugitives
they sought.  The torch fell upon the bottom steps
and blazed up, revealing as with the light of day
the three crouching figures.  There was a wild,
irregular shout of surprise and exultation from the
men above.

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`"THE TORCH FELL UPON THE BOTTOM STEPS, REVEALING THE THREE CROUCHING FIGURES"`:

   .. class:: center large bold white-space-pre-line

      [Illustration: THE TORCH FELL UPON THE BOTTOM STEPS, 
      REVEALING THE THREE CROUCHING FIGURES.
      (missing from book)]

.. vspace:: 2

"Onward with Sir John, Peter!" cried Edgar,
as he once more turned back, sword in hand, to
hold the rear.  As he did so a sudden thought
struck him.  Darting forward, he snatched up the
blazing torch, sprang back through the doorway,
and, dropping his sword, heaved at the door with
all his strength.  With a dull thud it swung to,
shutting out all sight of their pursuers and deadening
to a murmur the shout of fury that went up as
Sir Eustace and his men saw further pursuit for the
time hopelessly blocked.

"Back to the drawbridge!" cried Sir Eustace,
almost beside himself with rage.  "Pounce upon
them as they emerge at the other end."  Then,
realizing that the secret of the underground passage
would be at an end did the garrison sally out
indiscriminately, he gulped down his anger, and
commanded: "Nay, watch yon door lest the rascals
return.  Sir Gervaise, and you, Duprez, and
Manton, follow me across the drawbridge!"

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



By the light of the captured torch, Edgar and
Peter made rapid progress along the underground
passage.  The air was so foul and noisome that
even the torch burned dim, but their lives were in
such jeopardy that they had no thought but to
press on.  The passage was cut straight through
the earth, and was lined with stone.  It seemed of
great age.  Big clumps of fungi studded the walls,
and water stood in pools at their feet.  Though in
reality but a few minutes, it seemed an age before
they reached another door, which they guessed
marked the farther end of the tunnel.  Once
through this they doubted not that they would
be safely out of the castle.

Edgar rapidly tried the keys until he found the
one to fit.  Again the lock turned, though slowly
and unwillingly, as though it had been years since
any had passed that way, and through the door
they staggered, gasping.  The air was comparatively
fresh on the other side, and above their
heads, in a tiny patch, they could see the stars.
Holding up the torch, Edgar saw a row of ladder-like
steps leading straight upwards.  By the side
of the steps a heavy iron chain hung down.
Sending Peter up in advance, Edgar took Sir John, laid
him over his shoulder, and grasping the chain with
both hands, clambered painfully up.  As he reached
the top of what seemed like a wooden chimney, he
heard a dull rattle and roar in the distance.

"'Tis the drawbridge, Peter," he cried.  "Where
are we now?"

"At the top of the trunk of a hollow tree, Master
Edgar.  We are in the woods."

"Hold Sir John while I clamber down.  Then
lower him down to me, and, if I cannot reach him,
let him drop.  There is no time to think of a better
plan."

Ere their pursuers had reached the edge of the
woods Sir John had been safely lowered into
Edgar's arms, and Peter, in his turn, had
successfully clambered down.  Bearing their burden
between them, the two lads moved quietly away
among the trees.  Fortunately for them, Sir John
had fallen quite silent and lay inert, as though in
his weak state the foul air of the tunnel had
overcome him.  Their escape was effected just in time,
for their pursuers were only a few yards away, their
presence betrayed by their angry mutterings.

"Surround the tree!" they heard Sir Eustace
order.  "They can scarcely be out so soon,
bearing a sick man.  Keep in the shadow of the
undergrowth, and fall upon them unawares.  They are
still ours to crush, how and when we will."

Filled with a thankfulness too great for words at
having safely escaped from a dreadful fate, Edgar
and Peter moved softly away until they could feel
that they were safe.  Then they sank upon the
ground, overcome by an exhaustion that their
imminent peril had not allowed them to heed until
safety was assured.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`Ill News at Bordeaux`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV


.. class:: center large bold

   Ill News at Bordeaux

.. vspace:: 2

After half an hour's rest Edgar judged it time to
make a move.  It was clearly dangerous to keep
Sir John in the chill night air longer than was
absolutely necessary, well wrapped up though he
was.  The village was little more than half a mile
away, and towards this the two lads made their
way through the woods, with many a stumble in
the darkness.  Just as they were beginning to think
that they had mistaken the direction in which it lay,
they suddenly came upon it.

"Shall we make for the innhouse?" enquired Peter.

"Nay, let us first seek the priest.  It may be that
Sir Eustace will think that we have come from the
village and will return there.  He may send in a
messenger or a body of men to intercept us.  Let
us first seek advice of the priest.  I know his house;
it lieth on the outskirts, to the south."

Struggling on for a few more minutes, the two
lads found themselves at last at the priest's house.
It was in darkness, but presently, in response to
cautious knocks, a light appeared, and the door
was unbolted and opened.

"Who seeks Father Armand at this late hour?"
he asked.

"The two strangers.  We are back from Ruthènes
and seek thine aid.  We have rescued the
prisoner, but he is sick and sorely needs attention."

"What!  Escaped from Ruthènes?" cried the
priest, as he stepped quickly outside the house and
laid his hand on Edgar's arm.  "Warmly do I
felicitate you, for verily ye are the first that ever
did so.  And hast rescued the prisoner ye sought?
Marvel of marvels!  But if that is so 'tis
dangerous for you to stay here a minute longer.  When
Sir Eustace finds you have escaped he will lose
little time in riding in and searching this village
through and through.  Come--I will accompany
you--ye must return to the woods awhile until ye
can ride away in safety."

"Thank you, good father!  But the knight is
sick, and I fear 'twill be bad indeed for him to
lie abroad in the woods."

"The night is dry, and there is no alternative,
unless ye wish him to be dragged back to Ruthènes.
Come--demur not, for ye will, I hope, be off at
daybreak.  Your horses are safe, for I have had
them sent away to a secret place in the woods,
knowing well that were they found at the
inn-house nothing could save them."

Warmly Edgar thanked the priest for his kindness.

"Thank me not, Sir Squire.  I am always most
ready to aid the enemies of the castle; and besides,
I still nourish hopes that ye may throw in your lot
with us.  Come, now, let us get away into the
woods while there is time."

Following the priest's lead, Edgar and Peter
bore Sir John back within the shelter of the woods.
A comfortable litter was then constructed from two
of the rugs stretched across young saplings, and
the march began towards the secret place where
the horses had been sent.  After an hour's slow
travelling the party came to a steep cliff in a spur
of the mountains where a landslip appeared to have
hollowed out a shallow cave.  The dying embers of a
fire still glowed in the entrance, and as the party
approached, a man sprang to his feet, knife in hand.

"Peace, brother!" said the priest quietly.
"Where hast stabled the horses?"

"Yonder," replied the man, pointing to another
similar cave a few yards away.

"'Tis well," responded the priest.  Then
turning to Edgar he explained: "This place is often
used as a refuge by the villagers when they fear
interference.  It is fairly close at hand, and
provides a temporary shelter for man and beast."

"It will serve us well until we can obtain a
wagon in which to carry Sir John to Bordeaux,"
replied Edgar.  "If he can be moved, I am most
anxious to start at once.  Doubtless thou wilt know
someone who has a horse and cart to lend or sell?"

"Yes, I can obtain you what you want.  But sit
ye down by the fire and sup.  Jules here will give
us of his store so far as it will go, and meanwhile I
will attend to your sick knight.  I have some
knowledge of herbs and simples, and often have to tend
the sick in body as well as the diseased in mind."

Fresh wood was thrown upon the fire, and by its
light the party made themselves and Sir John
comfortable.  Barely half an hour had elapsed since
they reached the cave when the man Jules held up
a warning finger.

"Hark!" he said.

All stopped and listened intently.  In the distance,
borne clearly on the still air, could be heard
a noise as of shouts and cries.  It came from the
direction of the village.

"My people!" cried the priest in a voice of
anguish.  "My people again being harried by the
hirelings of the castle!  I must go to them.  Scant
respect do they give me indeed, but what I can do
I must do.  Farewell, young sir!"

With hasty tread he strode off into the woods,
leaving Edgar most uncomfortable and perplexed,
and sorely tempted to follow him.  It was clear
that the raid upon the village was due to his escape
from the castle, and the thought that innocent men
and women were suffering for his success was
most distressing.  The priest, too, in his eagerness
to protect his flock and in his hatred of the tyrants
might well be betrayed into a zeal that would bring
down upon him the more active hostility of the
garrison.  Edgar shuddered to think what might
then happen.

For some time the cries continued unabated, and
then they gradually died away until all was still
once more.  Feeling the tension somewhat relaxed,
Edgar and Peter, after seeing that Sir John was as
comfortable as it was possible to make him, threw
themselves down and slept until daybreak.

Soon after they had risen and had made a few
preparations for breakfast, the priest strode quickly
up.  Edgar could see that something was wrong
by his quick irregular tread and by the way in
which his hood was drawn well forward over his
face.  He came to a pause as he reached the cave,
and after replying with a gesture of the hand to
Edgar's salutations, remained standing for some
minutes in silence, as though in deep and anxious
thought.

"I hope there hath been no bloodshed," said
Edgar earnestly, when the silence of the priest had
become almost insupportable.

"There hath been little actual bloodshed," replied
the priest in a hollow voice; "merely a repetition
of the scenes of violence and cruelty that I have
had to witness for years past, but which I was
hoping were gone for good.  I am in doubt.  I
know not whether to raise the banner of revolt
without delay or to wait, as ye counselled, until
our forces have some sort of organization.  I now
incline to begin the fight at once, for I fear that
the spirit of my people will be broken beyond
redemption if such cruelties are allowed to go on
much longer unchecked."

Wearily he seated himself on the ground,
unconsciously throwing back his hood and revealing a
livid weal which ran across his face from one side
to the other.

"They have ill-used thee," cried Edgar, with a
burst of indignation.  "The cowards have struck
thee with their whips--and I am to blame.  'Tis
on my account that they have ridden into the
village and done violence to thy poor folk."

"My hurt is nothing," replied the priest,
contemptuously waving his hand as though to thrust
the idea aside.  "'Tis true it is the first time I
have received actual violence at their hands, but
I care nothing for that.  But my poor people have
not, I fear, my hope in the future, and upon them
the stripes fall with a deadly sting that toucheth
me not.  You say you fear 'tis on your account
that these things have been done.  Regard it not.
Perchance 'tis the spark that setteth alight the fire
to make us free.  I would though, Sir Squire,
that thou wouldst throw in thy lot with us, for
'tis a heavy thing for a priest, untutored in the art
of war, to lead the people he loveth to what may
be defeat and destruction.  If thou dost feel thy
responsibility for the night's violence--fling thy
sword into the balance, and thou wilt have paid
back thy debt in full."

"My hands are tied," replied Edgar, shaking
his head.  "My master there hath first claim upon
my services, and until he hath been put in a place
of safety I dare think of naught else."

"I will see to his welfare in a place of safety,"
exclaimed the priest.  "Higher up the mountains
I know several such places, and, tended by one or
two of our folk, he will mend rapidly and well."

"Nay, I must take him back to his kinsfolk,"
replied Edgar decidedly.  "Even then 'tis doubtful
whether he will give me permission to ride back
hither to engage in a private war on the side of
a people at war with my countrymen.  With all
my heart I desire thy success and the deliverance of
thy people, good father, but my duty is elsewhere.
Press me not, I beg, but let me on."

The priest inclined his head.  "Be it so," he
said sadly.  "Thou art still a friend though thou
canst not, or wilt not, stand shoulder to shoulder
with me in the conflict.  Thou shall return as
quickly as my help can compass it.  We will
not talk more of this matter; but let me see to
thy master.  A happy man is he to have won
such unswerving loyalty."

With a touch as light and gentle as that of a
woman, the priest tended the sick knight.  His
mind yet wandered, but he seemed to be easier
than when Edgar and Peter had first entered his
chamber in the donjon of Ruthènes.  By some
subtle means he seemed to know that he was now
in friendly hands, and had grown more restful and
contented.

For two days Edgar remained at the cave watching
over Sir John.  At the end of that time the
priest pronounced the knight well enough to travel,
and within a few hours a horse and cart were ready
waiting in the road at the point nearest to the
mountain refuge.

Sir John was placed upon the litter, gently
carried to the cart, and there comfortably ensconced
on a thick bed of dry leaves covered with a rug.
Then with a most cordial farewell to Father Armand,
Edgar mounted the cart and drove away.  Peter
rode alongside on one of their chargers, their
second having been left behind as payment for
the horse and cart.  After six days' travelling by
slow and easy stages they entered the gates of the
city of Bordeaux.

During the first two days of the return journey,
Sir John's mind still wandered.  On the third day,
however, to Edgar's great delight, he awoke with
his mind clear and lucid, although he was still
very weak and feeble.  He said nothing more than
a bare half-dozen words of greeting all that day,
but seemed content to lie there and let his eyes
wander from the lads' faces to cart and tree and
sky, as though well satisfied to be where he was.
The following day he showed more animation, and
talked about the villages and scenery through which
they passed.  He said no word of Ruthènes, however,
and appeared to wish to avoid the subject as
if it were a painful one that he was anxious to
put away from him as long as possible.

The day before the party reached Bordeaux, on
Edgar mentioning that he hoped they would arrive
in time to join the ladies just before they sat down
to their midday meal, Sir John seemed to come to
a sudden decision within himself.  Struggling into
a half-sitting posture upon his bed of leaves and
rugs, he said in a firm and steady voice: "Edgar,
I wish you now to tell me all--how you came to
be at Ruthènes and how I came to be released.  I
have some fears that the story will bring me no
credit, but I desire thee to tell me everything."

Although Edgar did not quite know what Sir
John meant by his last remark, he took no notice,
but told the whole story from the time of his setting
out with Peter up to the last desperate dash to
safety through the underground passage.

When he had finished, Sir John gave so deep
a sigh of relief that Edgar could not help looking
at him with some astonishment.

"Thou art surprised at my relief, lad," observed
Sir John, with a faint smile.  "Well, then, thou
shalt know how it is my mind feels so relieved that
I could almost shout for joy.  Ever since I was able
to think connectedly, I have had at the back of my
mind the fear that away there in Ruthènes I had
given way to the tortures and threats of De Maupas
and Eustace de Brin--given way, and passed my
knightly word to further their base schemes at the
expense of my successors or of the lady Beatrice.
How else could I account for my freedom save by
supposing that I had played the dastard, and had
been handed over to thee in payment of the debt
and to complete the bond?  Now ye tell me that
I have been rescued and that my honour is still
my own.  Canst now understand my relief, Edgar?
'Tis more difficult for me to understand how thou
couldst have rescued me.  It seems marvellous to
one who for days tramped frantically up and down
his cell like a caged beast, impotent to find a way
of escape."

"Talk not nor think of that, Sir John, or thou
wilt retard thy recovery.  We, too, felt the dread
spell of those fearful dungeons, but we were two,
and could support one another's drooping spirits."

There was a pause for a few minutes, and then Sir
John said suddenly: "What of the tournament,
Edgar?  What thought they of me when I appeared
not?  Did they think I blenched from the combat?"

"Nay, nay, Sir John--not one," evasively
replied Edgar, who rather shrank from the recital
of his masquerade as Sir John.  It seemed so likely
that the knight might resent the liberty,
undertaken in his interest though it had been.

"He will have gained nothing by the trick,"
said Sir John, half to himself, in a despondent tone.
"I will see to it that the earl doth know of his
baseness, and I doubt if he will dare again to cross
my path.  Better will it be for him to stay at
Ruthènes, where he is in safety among companions
as base as himself."

"I could wish that thou wouldst tell me how
they made thee prisoner, Sir John," said Edgar,
anxious to change the subject.  "Thou wert
wounded, I know, for when the priest tended thee
he found that great gash in thy thigh."

"Aye.  Nicely was I tricked.  I was riding at
my ease along a narrow lane when an old woman
stopped me and asked an alms.  As I stooped,
two men, with swords drawn, sprang out upon me
from the shelter of some bushes near by.  I was
quick enough to be ready for their onslaught, but
as I slashed at them, my horse sank suddenly to
the ground--hamstrung by a third man whose
approach I had not seen.  As I fell, I received a
swordthrust in the thigh, and before I could rise
I was seized by so many hands that all resistance
was futile.  I was bound hand and foot, conveyed
to a farmer's wagon in waiting close by, and flung
unceremoniously into it.  Two men mounted, and
we drove on for days, whither I knew not, until we
reached yon gloomy castle.  Then came De Maupas's
offer and my refusal.  What befell after that
thou know'st better than I, for what with my
wound, my rage against De Maupas, and the
dreadful gloom and dampness of my cell, I fell
sick and my senses left me.  It all seems like an
evil dream.  Were it not for my weakness and this
cart, I should look to wake up at Wolsingham or
Bordeaux once again."

In due course the wagon and its occupants arrived
at the inn where the ladies Gertrude and Beatrice
had made their temporary home.  Gaily Edgar
hailed the good man, for their troubles seemed to
be at an end.  Sir John was back again and, though
still weak and feeble, had been rapidly on the mend
ever since he had been taken from the castle.

"The ladies Chartris and D'Alençon, landlord!
Tell them the knight Sir John is back," cried
Edgar, springing down from his seat on the wagon
and aiding Peter to lift Sir John down and carry
him into the inn.

"Ah! sir----" cried the landlord.  Then he
stopped and stared uncomfortably from Edgar to
Sir John and back again.

"What is it, man?" cried Sir John, with sudden
apprehension.  "Doth aught ail them?  Which is
it?  Speak!"

"Oh, my lord, 'tis not the lady Gertrude--she is
above.  'Tis the lady Beatrice."

"Ah!  But what has chanced?  Canst not speak?
Is she dead?"

"Nay, nay--she is not dead.  She hath been
carried off by robbers or outlaws--none knoweth
by whom.  The lady Gertrude is in despair.  We
have done all we could to find where she hath been
taken, but without avail."

"Woe, woe!" cried the knight, sinking back on
the couch on which he had been placed.  "Enemies
seem to encompass me and mine.  She was placed
in my charge and I have failed in my duty.  Why
didst leave the ladies all unguarded, Edgar, to
come to my aid?  That was not well thought of.
I cannot value my rescue if it hath been obtained
at the expense of my ward's life and honour."

"I gave the ladies into Matthew's charge, Sir
John," replied Edgar brokenly.  "How could I
think aught would befall?  Reproach me not, I
beg of thee, for I feel I cannot forgive myself--and
yet, could I let thee perish without a blow struck?"

"Let it pass, Edgar.  'Twas in my despair that
I reproached thee.  It was not just.  'Tis Matthew
who shall feel the weight of my displeasure.
Landlord, fetch down the lady Gertrude, for we must
know all and see if there be aught that can still
be done."

In a minute or two Gertrude appeared, wild with
joy at hearing that her father had at last returned.
"Father, Father, how glad I am that thou hast
come back!" she cried, throwing herself on her
knees and winding her arms about him in joyous
rapture.  Then, seeing how thin and weak and ill
he looked, her gladness gave place to anxiety and
concern.  "Thou must come back with me to
England," she said persuasively, "and let me nurse
thee back to health and strength.  Thou hast
done enough for a little while.  How I wish poor
Beatrice were here to welcome thee and share my
gladness!"

"Tell us of the dreadful event," said Sir John,
after the first greetings were over.  "We must
consider what is best to be done.  Tell us everything."

The story was short enough.  It appeared that
the day after Edgar's departure, Beatrice, knowing
that he could not be back for a week or more,
suddenly determined that she would pay the expected
visit to her castle home at Faucigny.  Her maid
accompanied her, and, at Gertrude's desire, she
took Matthew and another of the Wolsingham
men-at-arms as an escort, the forward move of the
English forces not having yet begun.  Three
leagues beyond Bordeaux, whilst passing through
a small wood, the party was suddenly ambushed
by four men.

The man-at-arms was struck down before he
could lift a hand in his defence, and on Matthew
fell the whole brunt of the attack.  He made a
splendid defence but was eventually overcome and,
covered with wounds, left for dead upon the field.
What then happened to the lady Beatrice and her
maid no one knew.  Fortunately, Matthew was
discovered by passing peasants a few hours later
and was carried to a hovel a mile or two away.
Here he was tended until the arrival of a search
party which had been sent out the instant the
riderless horse of the man-at-arms galloped back into
the camp with blood upon saddle and flank.

As soon as he could speak Matthew was eagerly
questioned, but was able to tell them little.  He
could not say what had become of the lady Beatrice.
He only knew that one of the ruffians had held her
horse by the bridle whilst the other three occupied
themselves in overpowering all resistance.  Of their
assailants all he could tell was that he was certain
that he had seen one of them before.  This man,
too, appeared to be their leader, and he fancied
that he must be a man he had once or twice seen
lurking about the camp.

At this piece of news Edgar and Peter exchanged
glances full of anxious significance.

"Did he ever describe the man, Mistress Gertrude?"
asked Edgar.

"Yes.  He said he was a tall and sparely built
man with an evil-looking face.  Nobody else about
the camp, however, seemeth to know the man, and
although we have made enquiries far and wide, we
have found no clue save at a village many miles
away to the south-east.  Here an old man and a
boy said that, while working in the fields, four men
and two women, all on horseback, rode past them
across country, as though purposely avoiding the
roads.  That hath been all that we could discover,
and it is little enough, even if the two women with
the band were indeed those we sought."

"The missing clues I think we can supply, Sir
John," said Edgar, "though I greatly fear they
will in no wise lessen our apprehensions."

"Ye know, then, this man that Matthew had
seen before?"

"Yes, he is a man we believe to be in league
with thine enemy, Sir Gervaise de Maupas."

"Ah!--that man again!" cried Sir John, starting
to his feet in indignation.  His strength, however,
was unequal to the effort, and he sank back again
immediately with his hand pressed against his
thigh.

"What is it, Father, what is it?" cried Gertrude
anxiously.

"Only my wound, child.  It is far from healed,
and I must put no strain upon it for a while.  But
go on, Edgar.  We must think out what is to be
done.  We must act quickly if we are to act at all."

"I told thee, sir, the offer De Maupas made to
me in exchange for thy life and mine?  It was,
thou wilt remember, my support in persuading
thee to agree to his marriage with thy ward--her
lands being taken in exchange for his claims to
thine.  The capture of the lady Beatrice is, I see
clearly, but one more link in the infamous plan.
With her safely in his clutches, he doubtless
thought he would be in a still stronger position
to dictate his terms.  Moreover, if we consented,
he could make certain that we should never be
able to repudiate the promise as having been made
under compulsion, by calling in a priest and having
the ceremony performed offhand.  A right deadly
plan it hath been, and it hath all but
succeeded--even now it may succeed, for with the lady
Beatrice in his hands he is almost as strong as
with us all."

"Then ye think Beatrice hath been taken to
Ruthènes?" said Sir John, after a long and painful
pause.

"Yes, I am sure of it.  She must have arrived
there soon after we escaped."

"'Tis dire news.  How dreadful that place is
none of us would like to admit to any but ourselves!
What, then, will it be to a maid?  Edgar,
thou didst accomplish the impossible in rescuing
me--canst do anything to rescue the maid?  Be
sure that they will be doubly on the alert this time."

"I am ready and more than ready to try, Sir John."

"I would send to the earl and implore his aid,
did I think it likely that he would help me.  But
he hath his hands full and would not care to send
a force into a spot so remote as Ruthènes.  No, I
fear 'tis on ourselves alone that we must depend."

"I will go, Sir John.  I will take Peter and
fresh horses.  Where we have penetrated once we
can penetrate again.  Besides, this time we know
the secret way into the castle, and may avoid the
untimely capture into which we blundered so badly
last time."

"Be cautious and not too sanguine.  The guards
will be doubled, thou mayst be sure.  When canst
start?  Forgive me for sending thee away so soon
after bringing me into safety, but it is dreadful to
me to think of Beatrice immured in some lonely
chamber of yon blood-stained fortalice."

"I can start at once, Sir John.  All I want is a
little money, some food for the journey, and another
mount."

"Thou shalt have all thou canst want.  Gertrude,
give the lad money from my own purse.  Food and
another horse thou canst get, Edgar, as thou art
passing through the camp.  Delay not, lad, for I
am on fire with impatience to know that something
is being done.  I would that I were strong
enough to go."

"Farewell then, Sir John!  I hope that when
we return thou wilt be well and strong again, and
ready to join in the earl's advance."

Edgar hurriedly withdrew, and leaving Peter to
dispose of the horse and cart and to follow as soon
as he could, he mounted their one charger and rode
out of the city into the camp to the lines of the
Wolsingham contingent.  Calling one of the
men-at-arms, he instructed him to saddle and make
ready another of Sir John's chargers and to prepare
a store of food while he occupied himself in
selecting his best weapons and a spare suit of mail.
This suit he did not wear, but had it packed up
with a few pieces of mail for Peter in two portions,
one of which was to be borne on either horse.  By
the time his preparations were complete, Peter had
joined him, and without any further delay the two
mounted and rode out of the camp upon the road
to Ruthènes once more.





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.. _`A New Quest`:

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   CHAPTER XVI


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   A New Quest

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"Now, dear Father," cried Gertrude, as soon as
Edgar had left, "now that thou art in my charge
I must bid thee to bed.  All is done that can be
done, and thou canst rest content."

"All is done for the moment, and I will indeed
obey thee, my Gertrude.  But I have yet to make
my peace with the earl.  I must dispatch a missive
to Sir James d'Arcy, one of the marshals of the
tournament.  To him I can explain how 'twas I
failed, like a poltroon, to answer to the challenge
of Sir Gervaise de Maupas.  When he seeth my
condition and heareth my tale, I have hopes that
he will believe me."

"Hath not Edgar then----?" began Gertrude,
opening her eyes in amaze.

"Hath not Edgar what; maiden?  Is anything
wrong?" cried Sir John, a sudden look of
apprehension coming into his face.  "Surely the earl
hath not made proclamation of my disgrace because
of my non-appearance in the lists?  Tell me
quickly!"

"Nay, nay, Father, 'tis far from that.  Indeed
there is no need to trouble Sir James or the earl.
Thine honour is safe.  Edgar should have told
thee all and not left it to me."

"Gertrude," cried Sir John, with a touch of sternness,
"there is some mystery here.  Tell me what
it may mean.  Delay not, girl."

Without more ado Gertrude related to her father
the events that followed the first discovery of his
disappearance--how, as the hours passed by, they
had grown convinced that De Maupas in some
way had had him removed with the object of
disgracing him by his failure to appear in the lists,
and how at last Edgar, to save his honour, had
determined to personate him.

"What!" interrupted Sir John at this point.
"Personate me!  But surely not in the combat
in the lists?"

"Yes, yes, in the lists.  'Twas to save thine
honour, and to punish Sir Gervaise."

"'Twas a bold thought," murmured Sir John in
wonderment.  "But how could he hope for aught
but defeat against such a lance as De Maupas?
And yet he seemeth to have come to no great harm."

"He did not, Father.  The first onset was terrific,
but neither gained much advantage, though Sir
Gervaise's steed lost its balance and rolled over.
But in the encounter on foot Edgar handled Sir
Gervaise most roughly, and with a single axe-blow
felled him senseless to the ground."

"What!  He won?" cried Sir John in utter
astonishment.  "You tell me he won?  Truly
never have I heard the like since the days of the
paladins of old.  Ah, it must be to his
extraordinary earnestness to learn that he oweth so
great a victory.  His hard schooling at Gaspard's
and his constant practice elsewhere--ho! ho!  De
Maupas was well repaid, and that right quickly, for
his black treachery."

"None know the truth but ourselves," Gertrude
went on.  "Everyone believed that Sir John Chartris
left the camp immediately after the encounter to
pay the visit to Faucigny for which he had a few
days before obtained the earl's permission.  All is
well, Father, and thou canst take up the threads
where they fell when thou wert stolen away."

"Not so, my child," said Sir John thoughtfully.
"I cannot allow laurels undeserved to be bestowed
upon me so freely.  I must let the earl know the
truth.  Think not that I am the less indebted to
Edgar for his daring and successful championing
of my cause.  Had De Maupas been allowed to win
his bloodless victory, a dark cloud of disgrace and
suspicion would have gathered about my poor
name, and hard to disperse should I have found
it.  A few might have believed my tale, but the
greater part would have continued to shake their
heads dubiously whenever my name was mentioned.
As it is, I can tell the earl the story of
my capture at the same time that I tell him 'twas
not I that appeared in the lists.  All will thus be
well.  Scarce a soul but will then believe the tale."

"Edgar will surely be sorry.  He will think thou
art flinging away the fruits of his victory."

"Nay, he will understand, for 'twould be what
he would do himself were he in my place.  Sorrow
not for him, for he will be the gainer.  The earl
will love the tale, even though 'twill make him
pull a wry face to think how he and they all were
fooled.  My hopes rise, Gertrude.  Urged on by
such daring and energy as this, truly we may
well look to Edgar to bring back our Beatrice.
May God speed him!"

"May God keep him out of the hands of De
Maupas!" replied Gertrude feelingly; and Sir John
echoed her words with deepest emphasis.

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Riding to the limit of the endurance of their
horses, Edgar and Peter made rapid progress, and
were soon back again in the neighbourhood of
Ruthènes.  This time they did not ride directly
into the village, but, when within a mile or so, led
their horses into a thick covert and tied them to a
tree.  They then set off on foot for the castle,
keeping well away from the village.

"Tread silently, Peter, and keep a vigilant watch.
I would not that any saw us, especially of those
belonging to the castle."

As soon as they came within sight of the castle
Edgar gave the signal to stop, and, keeping well
out of sight of watchers on the wall, the two young
men reconnoitred it eagerly.

"There are more sentinels than ever," said Edgar,
after a long and earnest scrutiny.  "I feared as
much.  Well, let us now work round to the tree
which masks the entrance to the underground
passage.  If that way is still open to us, all is
well."

"But surely they will have found the keys we
left behind in the last scramble up the steps cut
within the tree trunk?" asked Peter.  "They will
have locked the doors, and we shall be barred out."

"Doubtless, but I care not for that so long as
there is no watcher posted at the doors.  With
patience we can win a way through the stoutest
barriers.  But if a sentinel is there, our hope of
a silent entry is gone."

Presently Edgar stopped and looked about him
in some perplexity.  "'Twas near here, was it not,
Peter, that the great tree spread its branches?
Nevertheless, I can see nothing of it."

"Yes, 'twas certainly near here, Master Edgar.
Yon clump of undergrowth--was it not through
that we made our way out of sight and reach of
Black Eustace and De Maupas?"

"I fear they have cut down the tree and carried
it away," said Edgar forebodingly.  "Search for
the scar in the ground--ah, here 'tis, carefully
covered with leaves and twigs, to show no sign."

The two young men gazed down at the smooth
patch of loose earth in silent consternation.  It was
on the continued existence of the secret passage
that they had built most of their hopes, for in all
their discussions they had agreed that it would be
almost an impossibility for them to make their way
over the walls and into the castle a second time.
Their first attempt had ended in capture, and it
was not likely that a second, with the garrison on
the alert, would be any more successful.

"They have filled up the passage," cried Peter
despondently.  "What hope is there now to find
a way into the castle?  Would that we had wings!"

"This is a heavy blow," said Edgar slowly.  "I
can think of no way in at present.  But we have
always one thing to fall back on, so lose not hope
so soon, lad."

Peter looked up quickly.  "Mean you to----"

"Yes, to throw in our lot with the priest.  If we
cannot win our way in by strategy we must fall
back on force of arms.  But before the die is cast
for an assault upon the castle, let me think if there
is no other means possible."

For half an hour Edgar paced up and down the
tiny glade formed by the removal of the great tree
whose hollow trunk had been so cunningly made
use of by the builders of the castle.  From every
point of view he conned over in his mind the
defences of the castle, and wrestled with the
problem of circumventing them.  But he could think
of no way that offered any real hope of success,
save by waiting and watching for some special
opportunity.  This, however, was out of the question,
for the thought of the delicate and high-spirited
Beatrice d'Alençon confined in a castle whose gloom
had weighed heavily upon the spirits even of men
inured to war and hardship was simply intolerable.

"Come, Peter," Edgar cried at last in the brisk
voice of one who has made up his mind, "come;
I see no way in but by the sword, and while that
castle holdeth Sir Gervaise de Maupas little do I
regret it.  Let us now seek Father Armand, and
place ourselves by his side."

Peter gave a suppressed cheer, and followed with
an eagerness that showed that the prospect of an
assault upon the castle appealed to him not one
whit less than it did to his master.

As soon as they had found their horses the two
young men mounted and rode quietly into the
village.  At the house which served as an inn they
stopped, and, calling the landlord, enquired for
Father Armand.

"He is away from the village," replied the man,
eyeing them narrowly.  "What want ye the good
father for?"

"We desire a few words with him," replied
Edgar.  "It is most important.  Canst not fetch
him or take us to him?"

The man shook his head.

"Perchance he is at the cave," suggested Edgar
quietly.  "If so, we will go ourselves, for he hath
told us the way."

The man's attitude changed at once.  "Yes, sir,
he is at the cave.  I did not know he had told thee
all.  I will go with thee and lead thy horses.  It
will not be well to leave them in the village--thou
know'st why," he added, again eyeing Edgar narrowly.

Edgar nodded and accepted the man's offer to
accompany them, though he guessed it was made
more with a view to keeping them under observation
than to assisting them.  The man's attitude
indicated plainly that the priest had been as good
as his word, and that the banner of revolt, if it
had not already been raised, was at least being
nailed ready to the staff.

At the cave they came upon a scene of animation.
Yards of bush had been cleared away, and in the
open space scores of men were at work drilling or
furbishing up their arms.  The drilling was of a
most crude and primitive nature, and would have
appeared ludicrous to Edgar under other circumstances.
But he was too well aware of the cruelty
and oppression under which these men had groaned
for so many years to smile at the poor figure they
cut in a soldier's eyes.

Moreover, he knew that nothing but the
determination born of despair could have brought them
to the pitch of assaulting a strong and well-garrisoned
castle, unequipped as they were with any of
the engines of war.  For a moment or two he could
not see Father Armand, but presently he espied
him, with hood flung back and gown tucked up,
explaining and demonstrating to some of the more
stupid of his levies what they were expected to do
when he gave certain orders.  The moment he saw
Edgar and Peter he left his work and ran quickly
forward to meet them.

"Sir Squire," he cried eagerly, "doth thy return
mean that thou art----?"

"Yes, yes, Father," cried Edgar, grasping the
hands which the priest extended to him, and
pressing them warmly.  The sight of the kindly face,
with its lines that told of care and sorrow, stirred
him strangely.  How gallant was the old man thus
to take up the sword in what must have seemed
almost a forlorn hope to one unused to any sort of
warfare but that of the spirit!  "Yes, Father, we
have come to throw in our lot with you.  For weal
or woe, we are members of your band."

"Not members--leaders," cried the priest
impetuously.  "We sadly lack skill and knowledge,
and of these I know ye possess as much as, if not
more than, our ancient enemy.  Come, let me tell
my people the brave news.  It will cheer their
hearts, for, though they have answered to my call
willingly and eagerly, it is more the willingness
of men to go to death rather than remain in
soul-destroying bondage than that of men marching
forward with the expectation of victory."

Calling to the assembled bands, the priest bade
them form in two lines in something approaching
military formation.  Then he told them the story
of Edgar's and Peter's first coming, and how they
had, single-handed, made entry into the castle and,
in spite of capture and alarums, succeeded in
bringing away him whom they had set out to rescue.

Though Edgar could not follow the whole of the
priest's patois, he could see that the story was well
and graphically told, and that it made a deep
impression on the listeners.  Then the priest went
on to tell of how he had made request to the two
strangers to stop and assist them in their
undertakings, and how, in loyalty to their sick master,
they had reluctantly refused.  Finally he told them
that they had now returned and placed themselves
at his disposal in their righteous war for freedom.

A roar of applause rose as the priest paused
for a moment and placed his hand on Edgar's
shoulder.

"They have knowledge of war, and must lead
us," he went on.  "This man I appoint to lead us
in the field.  He shall be co-equal with me.  I shall
command, except when we move forward to battle,
when Sir Squire will take the lead, and I shall
fight by his side."

There was another roar of enthusiastic applause,
and the men broke ranks and crowded eagerly
about the newcomers.  Seeing that something
seemed to be expected of him, Edgar sprang upon
the back of his horse and held up his hand.  The
spirit of the priest and his men and their just cause
had so stirred him that he forgot for the moment that
he was a simple esquire with little experience of
warfare and small claims to ability to lead an attack
upon a powerful castle.  He only knew that he was
ready to do whatever was asked of him--to lead or
to follow, he cared not which, so that he might aid
a plucky people struggling to be free.

In a few words, simple and slow, from his imperfect
knowledge of the local dialect, he told them
that victory could never be theirs unless all were
ready to give prompt obedience to their leaders, to
work hard, to fight to the death, and to think, not
of plunder, but only of victory and justice.  The
speech was well received, and Edgar dropped back
to the ground with the feeling that, though he and
his men might be beaten, it would be from lack of
skill rather than from lack of courage and
determination.

"Shall we move to the attack at once?" cried the
priest, his eyes flashing with eagerness.  "Our
numbers are almost complete--one hundred and
fifty all told."

"Nay, good Father, let us hold council of war.
Nothing will be lost by waiting an hour or so."

"Come, then, let us to the cave and hold council
forthwith.  Our men are full of eagerness now, and
I would that thou couldst see thy way to an attack
at once."

Moving to the entrance of the cave the priest,
Edgar, and Peter took counsel together.

"What food have ye collected to feed this
great host of thy people, Father Armand?" asked
Edgar quietly.  He could see that the priest was
over-excited, and wished to bring him back to
cooler thoughts as well as to find out exactly how
matters lay with his new command.

"But little, I fear," replied the priest.  "We are
so poor that food and money can only be gathered
in the smallest quantities.  Any man that hath
more than his starving fellows is soon relieved of
his surplus by the arch-robbers of the castle."

"Men cannot fight well with half-starved bodies,"
responded Edgar, shaking his head.  "Nevertheless
we must do the best we can with the means at
our disposal.  How are the enemy off for food?
How often do they receive fresh supplies?  I should
dearly love to begin the campaign by capturing
the wagons bringing to them their ill-gotten
stores."

"I know not when the next falls due, but always
of late they have sent mounted men-at-arms to
escort the wagons to the castle.  Several armed
guards, too, accompany their cattle when they are
driven forth and back to pasture every morning."

"Ha!  Where pasture they the cattle?"

"At a field a short way along the road in the
opposite direction to the village."

"Those cattle must be captured, Father.  'Twill
be a blow to the enemy, and at the same time
provide us with food for our starving levies."

Many more questions Edgar asked, until he had
a full grasp of the situation and could help to plan
for the great attack.  Presently from their
discussions a plan emerged and took shape, and when
the council of war broke up a definite course of
action, which seemed to give the priest, at any
rate, full satisfaction, had been decided upon.

The drilling was resumed, this time under Edgar's
direction, and arms were again inspected under the
experienced eye of the armourer's assistant.  It soon
became generally understood that the morrow was
to witness the opening of the attack, and the men
went about their tasks with a zest and eagerness
that had been absent an hour or two before.  With
scarce a moment's intermission the preparations
continued till night came and a semblance of peace
fell upon the warlike scene.





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.. _`The Opening of the Attack`:

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   CHAPTER XVII


.. class:: center large bold

   The Opening of the Attack

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"Let every man understand that silence is of far
more importance than speed," said Edgar to the
priest the following morning, as the latter put
himself at the head of a body of forty men carrying
spades in addition to their weapons.  "If you do
your work thoroughly and silently Peter and I will
see that you are not disturbed."

"The work shall be done, and done well,"
responded the priest cheerfully.  "See thou, Sir
Squire, to thy part.  To thee the conflict--and let
it be victory, for defeat at the outset will be hard
indeed to bear."

"Father," responded Edgar quietly, "I have
told thee why I have come again and why I must
enter yon castle.  With such responsibility resting
on my shoulders, am I likely to submit to failure
while there is a chance of victory?  Can I return
to my master alive and unsuccessful?"

The priest grasped Edgar by the hand and wrung
it warmly.  "For thee as well as for me it is victory
or the grave," he said simply.  Then he gave the
word to his men and the band marched steadily away.

Peter's band followed next.  It numbered only
about thirty strong, but was composed of the
younger and more alert-looking men.  Lastly came
the largest body, commanded by Edgar.  This was
clearly composed of the toughest fighting material
among the peasantry, and appeared to be intended
to bear the brunt of any fighting that might ensue.

While the men were on the move, spies came
and reported that the cattle belonging to the castle
had, as usual, been driven to their pasture, escorted
by a body of ten mounted men-at-arms.

"The guard waxes stronger every day," said
the priest meaningly.  "They must, I fear, have
an inkling of what is afoot."

Edgar nodded.  "It may only be an inkling,"
he said.

The three bodies of men presently arrived at the
road which led from the castle gates through the
thick woods for about four hundred yards before it
branched in two, the one track leading to the village
and the other to the fields in which the castle cattle
grazed.  A few paces from the point where the
roads separated a halt was made, and the priest's
contingent flung down their weapons and grasped
their spades.  A section of the roadway was pointed
out to them, and, using the utmost caution, that no
sound might penetrate to the castle, the men began
to dig with a suppressed energy which told how
much their hearts were in their work.

Satisfied that they understood the need for silence
and could be relied upon, Edgar dispatched Peter
and his band along the road for a hundred yards
or so in the direction of the castle.  Their office
was to intercept and capture all who came that
way, and, at all costs, to prevent their return to
the castle with news of what was proceeding.

Edgar then gave the word to his own men and
marched them off upon the road taken by the cattle
and their escort.  A few hundred yards from the
field in which the animals were pastured he called
a halt, and posted the men in the woods on either
side of the track, ready to ambush the men-at-arms
on their return to the castle.

Free for the moment, he made his way to the
edge of the woods overlooking the field, and stood
for some time watching the escort of men-at-arms.
In the ordinary way one of their number would
have been set to watch while the others flung
themselves down to rest or to dice away their time.
Instead of that, however, they had gathered
together in a group, and appeared to be eagerly
discussing some matter of absorbing interest.  It
seemed only too clear that by some means the castle
had gained an inkling of what was going on, and
equally clear that the difficulties and dangers of the
peasants' task had been increased fourfold.

The morning wore on until the time for the return
of the cattle arrived.  They were collected and,
preceded by two men, were driven back along the road
by which they had come, the rest of the guard
following behind.

Suddenly and without warning a shrill whistle
sounded.  A rush of men from the undergrowth
on each side of the road instantly followed.  The
men-at-arms forming the escort were not unready,
but they were spread out two deep, and the attackers
were among them before they could gather thickly
in defence.  A wild and confused struggle ensued.
Edgar's own dash forward brought him into contact
with two soldiers, the farther one of whom instantly
snatched a horn from his belt and placed it to his
lips.  Guessing that the man was about to signal
for assistance, Edgar charged impetuously, cut
down the man nearest to him, and sprang upon
the one sounding the alarm.

The action, swift as it was, came too late, and
for some moments the note of the horn resounded
unchecked high above the din of the conflict.
Without pausing in his attack Edgar listened
eagerly for a reply, and in a few seconds caught
the answering note of a horn wound long and full.
The sound came from the direction of the castle,
and, as it ceased, in its place he seemed to hear the
deeper note of a loud cheer of encouragement.

The encouragement came too late, however, for
by that time all resistance was at an end.  Seven
of the men-at-arms had been cut down, and the
remainder overwhelmed and forced to surrender.

"Re-form into rank, men--onward!" cried Edgar,
and without waiting to count the cost of the victory,
the band was rapidly marched back the way it
had come, six men being left behind to guard the
prisoners and to take charge of the captured cattle.

"Hark!" suddenly cried one of the men, raising
his hand in the air.

The harsh, unmistakable rattle of the chains of
the castle drawbridge could plainly be heard,
followed in a few seconds by the hollow, distant beat
of horses' hoofs upon the planking, as though a
troop of horsemen was spurring vigorously across.

"Follow me," cried Edgar, breaking into a run,
and at top speed the men sped down the track
towards the place where a few hours before they
had left the band commanded by the priest hard
at work.

Rounding a bend they came in full sight of the
spot, but before them the roadway stretched, to all
appearances, as firm and unbroken as ever.  Could
their comrades have failed them?  Not a soul was
in sight until, in the distance, a strong body of
men-at-arms, headed by two knights clad in full
armour, appeared galloping rapidly towards them.
At the sight of the loose body of armed peasantry
in front of them the knights and their following
sent up a savage cheer of exultation, and, setting
spurs to their horses, thundered furiously down
upon the others.

At the grim, heart-shaking spectacle, Edgar felt
his men involuntarily check their speed.

"Rally, men, and charge the tyrants!" he cried
loudly, and, echoing his words, his men recovered
their nerve and pressed along after him.

Rapidly the two forces closed in upon one another
until but a few yards of the roadway separated them.
Sir Eustace, who, with De Maupas, headed the
castle garrison, had even levelled his lance full at
Edgar's breast, when all of a sudden the very
ground seemed to open beneath his feet!  There
was a rending crash as a framework of branches,
covered with straw and earth, concealing a pit
dug in the roadway, gave beneath his weight and
sent him crashing headlong into the chasm.  De
Maupas and many of the men-at-arms behind,
unable to stop their furious advance, fell headlong
after him until the yawning pit was choked with
a mass of struggling men and horses.

"Charge home!" cried Edgar, and with a wild
cheer he and his men sprang upon the struggling
mass and towards the files spurring to their aid.
Another and more desperate combat began.  From
both sides and the rear sprang the men of the
priest's and Peter's bands, as they issued forth
from their leafy screens and attacked the astounded
garrison.

Edgar's first object was to keep the men-at-arms
still in the saddle from rescuing the two knights
struggling in the pit.  Desperately he fought, but
the men-at-arms as desperately charged forward,
and with all their weight and impetus swept him
and his men violently back.  The two knights,
clad in full armour, were little hurt by their heavy
fall, and in a few minutes they were successfully
extricated from the struggling mass and helped
upon spare horses.  Then with loud cries of
encouragement to one another, the men-at-arms
re-formed in a solid body and began to forge their
way slowly and irresistibly back to the castle.

Time after time Edgar flung himself into their
ranks, attended by such of his men as dared to
follow, and strove to break up their formation and
keep them from winning their way back to shelter.
But though his vastly superior swordplay enabled
him easily to vanquish individuals, a surge forward
of several men each time flung him roughly
backwards, and at last the survivors of the garrison
reached the edge of the wood, and were able to
gallop unchecked across the sward to the castle
drawbridge.  The bridge was still down, and the
battered remnant filed sullenly and silently back
into the castle courtyard.  The gates crashed to
behind them, and with many jolts and jars the
drawbridge was drawn up, interposing the still
waters of the moat between them and their exulting foes.





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.. _`The Plight of Beatrice`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII


.. class:: center large bold

   The Plight of Beatrice

.. vspace:: 2

It was known that the garrison of the castle
numbered some fifty men all told, exclusive of the two
knights.  In the attack on the cattle guard ten men
had been accounted for, and in the battle about the
pit seventeen had been killed outright or had fallen
into the hands of their enemies.  The garrison was
thus reduced to less than half its former strength.
Confident that there was now no likelihood of a
sally of a body of mounted men which might prove
disastrous on the open ground about the castle,
Edgar re-formed his men and led them in a solid
body out of the woods towards the castle gates.
After so decisive a victory it seemed well to try
to overawe the garrison by a demonstration of
strength, in the hope that some of their number
might sue for terms.

Horns were blown, and, after a few minutes'
interval, two figures appeared on the outer walls
above the gates.  They were Sir Eustace de Brin
and Sir Gervaise de Maupas.

Sir Eustace appeared almost beside himself with
rage and humiliation.  Shaking his mailed fist at
the men ranged in rank upon the green sward
below, he shouted furiously:

"Brood of vipers--who commands?"

Edgar looked at the priest, who motioned him
to reply.

"Father Armand and I, Edgar Wintour, esquire
of Wolsingham, command."

"And bitterly shall ye rue the day ye lifted hand
against Eustace de Brin.  Think ye to overcome
me?  Think ye I have no friends who will send
hosts of men-at-arms to trample you into the mud
whence ye came?"

"Sir Eustace de Brin," replied Edgar calmly,
"think well over thy situation.  No word will we
allow to reach the outer world from this castle,
and the men-at-arms of which thou speakest will
never come to thine aid."

"Ha!  Thy cleverness, Sir Squire, is already
outmatched.  Hours ago a messenger left this
castle to seek aid."

"He is our prisoner, Sir Eustace."

"Dog!" cried the knight violently, "I tell thee
that my friends will soon miss my visits and send
to enquire the reason.  Withdraw from before this
castle, and I will then see how lenient I can be
even to braggart rebels such as ye."

"The Earl of Derby is advancing into the
lands of the King of France, and all the
men-at-arms that can be spared will be sorely needed
to rally to his standard.  None of thy friends
will think of aught but the enemy of France in
this time of trouble.  Thine is a sad plight, Sir
Eustace, and thou wouldst do well to recognize it."

Gulping down his rage with an effort, the knight
replied in a calmer tone:

"What meanest thou?  What wantest thou?  Speak!"

"We want thy surrender----"

"What!  Darest thou suggest that Eustace de
Brin surrender his castle of Ruthènes to a rabble
of rebel vassals?  Base and renegade esquire--one
who warrest against those of his own station on
behalf of dogs of rebels--I tell thee thou knowest
not our strength nor how far the arm of chivalry
can reach.  Withdraw from the ranks of these
peasants, or it will most surely reach thee."

"Chivalry will ne'er support thee when it knows
of thy black crimes, Eustace de Brin," replied
Edgar, altogether unmoved.  "It is I who represent
chivalry this day, for, as thou shouldst know,
it is the proud boast of chivalry to take the part of
the weak and oppressed.  But it is not of this that
I wished to speak.  We demand thy surrender and
that of the ladies so basely torn from their friends
by the false knight who stands by thy side.
Surrender is the only course that can save the lives of
the soldiers of the garrison, and the only course
that will give thee a chance to plead thy case before
thy countrymen.  Sir Gervaise de Maupas, too,
will have at least an opportunity of answering a
charge of treachery before the English earl.
Persist in thy refusal and thou art lost, for once
the blood of this people thou hast oppressed is
inflamed against thee, neither Father Armand nor
I may be able to restrain them."

"Bah!  These walls laugh thee and thy rabble
to scorn.  Do thy worst, Master Squire.  Here is
our first greeting."

.. _`"'BAH!  THESE WALLS LAUGH THEE AND THY RABBLE TO SCORN!'"`:

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   :alt: "'BAH!  THESE WALLS LAUGH THEE AND THY RABBLE TO SCORN!'"

   "'BAH!  THESE WALLS LAUGH THEE AND THY RABBLE TO SCORN!'"

As he spoke, the knight raised his arm as a
signal, and a number of men, who had evidently
been secretly preparing all the time the parley had
been proceeding, crowded to the walls.  In their
hands they bore stones and rocks, which they
instantly began to rain violently down upon the
men on the ground beneath.

"Back--out of range," cried Edgar, immediately
he saw the men-at-arms appear, and amid the
hurtling missiles the men rushed to the shelter of the
edge of the woods.  A reply to the fusillade was
not at once possible, as, like the garrison, scarcely
any of the peasants were able to use the bow with
any degree of success.  To return the fire with
stones would be wellnigh useless, as the height
of the walls would rob the missiles of all their
power and momentum.

"We cannot assault the castle yet?" said the
priest to Edgar enquiringly.  "There must be
preparations?"

"Yes; we can do nothing until we have filled in
a portion of the moat.  Didst not tell me once that
the moat is a stream dammed back below the castle?"

"Yes, that is so."

"Then I would that a few men be sent to
break down the dam at once.  That will aid us
famously in our onslaught upon the moat.  A
half-empty moat will be a good step forward."

"It will indeed.  I will see to it, Sir Squire."

"Are any of thy folk skilled in carpentry or
woodfelling?  If so, let them get to work cutting
down trees and preparing timber without delay, for
I like not that our men should be unable to reply
to the showers of missiles from the walls."

"What wouldst do then?"

"I would build mangonels.  I saw many in the
camp outside Bordeaux, and had a fancy to see
how they were put together.  I think we can
construct them with success.  They will hurl rocks that
will blister the walls even of yon fortress, and if
they fall into the courtyard may do dire execution."

"The men shall be found," cried the priest
exultingly.  "Our cause advances.  I believe that
Heaven will give us the victory."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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So well arranged and so swift had been the
capture of Beatrice d'Alençon that her defenders had
been stricken down and all was over before she
had fully grasped that they were attacked.  It was
not indeed until she had ridden for some distance
with one of her captors on either side that she
realized that she and her maid were prisoners in
the hands of unknown men, who seemed, from the
purposeful way in which they rode, to have a
definite and well-planned object in view.  To escape
was her first impulse, but a grip of iron fell upon
the bridle the instant she attempted to turn her
horse's head.

"What meaneth this?" she cried out at last in
indignation and distress.  "Where are you taking
me, and with what purpose?"

A stolid silence, broken only by the trampling of
the steeds, met her cry.

More alarmed still, if possible, by the silence of
her captors, Beatrice dragged desperately at her
bridle and made her horse plunge violently.

With a savage word one of the men (it was
Baulch) tore the bridle roughly from her grasp.
"Be still!" he cried.  "Play me that trick again
and thou shalt ride in front of my saddle.  Ha, ha!
Perchance that will suit thee better, maiden?" he
added with a leer.

"Ruffian," cried Beatrice with a shudder of
disgust, "ruffian, what meaneth this shameful assault
upon my retainers, and why drag ye me thus away
from all my friends?  Answer me."

"Remain still or not a word wilt thou get,"
growled the man who had before spoken.  "We
are taking thee to a friend of thy guardian.  Ha,
ha!--a friend who hath watched over his welfare
right carefully of late, and one, too, who knoweth
thee well, and who desireth to know thee better.
Ha, ha, ha!"

So hateful to Beatrice was the man's coarse laugh
and evil look that she preferred to remain silent
rather than provoke another sally.  Without
further resistance or attempt to find out whither
she was going, she allowed herself to be led across
country for mile after mile.  Her maid, weeping
hysterically, rode behind in charge of another of
the ruffians, and even the consolation of closer
intercourse was for some time denied them.

To Beatrice's surprise, and even more to her
utter consternation, the strange journey went on,
not for hours but for days, and it was not until
some five days after her capture that the party
reached what she guessed to be their destination.
This was a castle of so grim and gloomy an appearance
that the sight of it made her heart sink with
terror and apprehension.  What fate might not be
in store for her in a place so remote and in a prison
looking so strong and ruthless?

"Is this, then, the vile prison-house to which
thou hast been leading me?" she cried to Baulch,
as she drew rein in front of the drawbridge and
looked wildly about her for some possible way of
escape from her captors.

"It is, lady.  Lead on," responded Baulch
grimly, as he forced her horse on to the drawbridge
and led it across into the castle courtyard.  "This
is thy new home.  My advice to thee is to make
the best of it."

Dismounting, Beatrice and her maid were led
to the door of the central donjon and up the stone
staircase to a chamber almost on a level with the
outer walls.  The door was flung open, and they
were roughly bidden to enter.  They did so, feeling
that it was useless to resist, and feeling, too,
that at any rate matters would now soon come to
a head and end their pitiable state of uncertainty
and suspense.  Immediately the door was clanged
to and bolted behind them.

The room in which they found themselves was
small and sparsely furnished, but was not uninviting.
The number of rich rugs which plentifully
bestrewed the floors seemed to indicate that at
least an attempt had been made to give an air of
something approaching comfort to a room
otherwise plain and bare.  This fact might have
reassured them somewhat had it not indicated the
far more terrifying fact that they had been
expected.  Who he might be, and what his
purpose, that had stretched out so long and powerful
an arm as to drag them to this remote and lonely
spot, Beatrice could not even hazard a guess.
Nevertheless, in spite of the mystery and terrifying
uncertainty in which she found herself, she strove
to keep a brave heart, as much for the sake of her
maid--to whom she was much attached--as for her own.

About an hour after their arrival, footsteps were
heard approaching the chamber.  They came to a
stop at the door, and a moment later a man entered.

It was Sir Gervaise de Maupas.

At the sight of this man, whom she both knew
and dreaded, Beatrice involuntarily sprang up
from the couch on which she had been reclining.

"Thou!" she cried, in a voice in which anger,
scorn, and fear all had a place.

"Yea, lady, who else should it be?" replied
De Maupas in a soft voice, as he bowed with the
utmost gallantry and advanced into the centre of
the room.  "Who else would risk his all--name,
career, and life--out of love for thee?  None but
Sir Gervaise de Maupas, knight of England, I do
venture to assert."

As he spoke, De Maupas drew himself up with
dignity.  He was clad in a richly inlaid suit of
armour, over which a splendid cloak had been
carelessly flung.  But for the hawk-like and cruel
expression of his thin face, he would have looked
a goodly and martial sight enough.

"Love for me?  What dost mean, sir?" cried
Beatrice roundly, though for all her boldness her
limbs trembled beneath her.

"Most assuredly.  I have long worshipped thee
in secret.  It is only my unhappy enmity with thy
guardian that hath prevented me from approaching
thee, and hath forced me to resort to this expedient
to enable me to proffer thee my love.  As doubtless
thou know'st, I am a knight of good lineage,
and one whose lands, if thy guardian granted my
rightful claims, would be both wide and rich."

"Thy love hath no attractions for me, Sir Gervaise
de Maupas," cried Beatrice, with difficulty
restraining a desire to sink back upon the couch.
"I believe thee to be nothing less than a traitor.
What hast done with Sir John?  I believe thee to
be at the bottom of his disappearance."

For a moment De Maupas appeared startled.
But after a moment's pause in indecision he
replied calmly: "I do not wish to deny it, lady.
'Twas indeed I who arranged his capture.  But
'tis said that all is fair in love and war, and to
love for thee and war towards Sir John I must
ascribe the deed."

"Where is he?" cried Beatrice breathlessly.

"He is here."

"In this castle?"

"In this castle, lady."

There was a momentary pause.  Beatrice's lips
trembled so that they would scarcely frame her
words.  Then she resolutely mastered her emotion
and asked:

"How is it named?"

De Maupas hesitated for a moment.  Then he
shrugged his shoulders and went on: "I see no
harm in letting thee know.  This castle is called
Ruthènes."

"*Oh!*"

The tone of the interjection was so singular that
De Maupas stared at Beatrice in astonishment.
She had turned slightly aside, and was looking
not at him but at the door.

"The name seemeth familiar," he said coolly.
"Perchance Sir John's hot-headed esquire, Edgar
Wintour, hath mentioned it to thee?"

As he spoke De Maupas toyed with the sword
girded at his side, and, with a sickening shock,
Beatrice recognized the weapon.  It was Edgar's!
He, too, must then be a prisoner!

"I see thou dost recognize the weapon," said
De Maupas grimly, as he noticed with secret satisfaction
how the blood had left her face and how she
had to bite her lips to subdue their trembling.

"Is he then also a prisoner in this castle?" she
asked after a pause, during which she managed to
regain a semblance of composure.

"Yes," replied De Maupas, without a blush.
"He and that limping youth of his are both fast
in the dungeons of Ruthènes.  I fear they will
never see the light unless----"  He stopped and
shook his head forebodingly.  Then he walked
slowly to the window, and stood gazing out as
though lost in thought.

Beatrice waited for some minutes for De Maupas
to finish, but he seemed to have forgotten her
existence.

"What dost intend to do with Sir John and his
esquire?" she asked presently in a pleading voice.
"Surely thou wouldst not do harm to thine own
countrymen?"

"That question, lady, is not so much for me as
for the owner of this castle to answer," replied
De Maupas with an air of regret.  "Hark!  He
is at the door; we will enquire his intentions
concerning his prisoners."

The door opened and Sir Eustace de Brin entered.
He was clad from head to foot in black armour,
without any sort of relief or ornament whatever,
and the effect was grim and forbidding to the last
degree.  If the two poor captives had needed
anything further to destroy their last hopes, the sight
of this grim-visaged, black-bearded, and black-mailed
knight would have supplied it.  Indeed,
at the sight of him Jeanette screamed aloud and
Beatrice sank down upon the couch and covered
her face with her hands.

Turning towards the maid, De Brin gave her
so fierce a look that she was reduced to instant
silence.  Then he turned to De Maupas and asked:

"Doubtless the lady Beatrice gladly welcometh
thy suit, friend De Maupas?"

"Not exactly, Sir Eustace.  She was, however,
asking after Sir John and his esquire as thou wert
entering.  She would wish to know what thou dost
intend concerning them."

"Their fate?  Spies and enemies of my beloved
France?  They must die," replied De Brin instantly.

"Would nothing move thee from thy purpose?"
asked De Maupas persuadingly.  "If what I desire
cometh to pass, their fate will become of some
moment to me.  Wouldst then, for our friendship's
sake, allow me to intercede for their lives?"

De Brin slowly paced the length of the room and
back again.

"Eustace de Brin never turned a deaf ear to the
pleading of a friend," he said in a quieter tone.
"For our friendship's sake, then, if thou dost
intercede for their lives' on behalf of thy wife I will
listen.  If 'tis for aught else I will not move one
single hair's breadth from my purpose."

"Hearest thou, Beatrice?  Wilt thou----?"

De Maupas stopped and looked enquiringly at
his formidable companion.  De Brin had given
a sudden start, and appeared to be gazing at the
window with an intent expression on his face.

Roused by De Maupas's sudden silence, Beatrice
lifted her face from her hands and looked at the two
men.  Both were listening intently, and she caught
a sound as of the winding of a distant horn.  It
ceased as though broken off short, and the two men
looked significantly at one another.

"Didst hear?" said De Maupas laconically.

"Yes--an attack," growled De Brin, grinding
his teeth with fury.  "So much the worse for the
attackers.  Come--to horse, De Maupas; we have
tarried with this obstinate girl too long already;"
and with a dark look at Beatrice, De Brin hurried
from the room, followed closely by his companion.
The moment they were gone Beatrice rushed to
the window and peered eagerly out.  The trampling
of steeds on the flagstones of the courtyard,
the winding of horns, and the shouting and cheering
of the men-at-arms indicated that the garrison
were about to issue forth in force.  Clearly
something had occurred to alarm the inmates of the
castle seriously.  What could it be?  Think as
she would, Beatrice could find no satisfactory
answer.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Assault`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX


.. class:: center large bold

   The Assault

.. vspace:: 2

"The dam is down!" cried Father Armand excitedly,
rejoining Edgar in the woods opposite the
castle gateway as the latter was superintending the
construction of two great mangonels.  "The dam
is down and the water is rushing away like a mill
sluice."

"'Tis well," replied Edgar; "in an hour or so
the moat will be half-empty, and we can begin to
make ready for the first assault."

"So soon?" enquired the priest in surprise.

"Yes, good Father.  I am on fire with
impatience.  While the lady Beatrice d'Alençon is
held in yon fortalice how can I be aught else?
Think not that I shall endanger our cause by my
hastiness.  The garrison hath had a rude shock
this day, and if we can deliver another before they
have had time to recover, the advantage is all on
our side."

"Say on, then, Sir Squire.  Thy counsel hath
been good hitherto, and I am most ready to listen.
What is next to be done?"

"Set all the men but those at the mangonels to
work cutting great bundles of undergrowth.  Let
the women and children also help, and let the
faggots be cut at some little distance, so that the
thickness of the woods here, which is our protection
against a sortie, be not destroyed.  The bundles of
undergrowth we must use to fill up the moat and
give us a foothold for the assault upon the gates
and walls."

"Yes, yes; I thought that would be the next move."

"Then I want thee to strip a wagon of its
strongest pair of wheels.  Leave them on the axle.
Then fell a tall young tree, with trunk about the
thickness of a man's thigh.  Lop off all its branches
and cap the end with iron.  Then lay it across the
axle and lash it there.  Running easily on its
wheels, and thrust by a score of men, the tree will
make a battering-ram that will, I promise thee,
reduce the drawbridge and gates of Castle Ruthènes
to splinters within the space of a few minutes."

"Ha! but will not the wheels of thy ram sink
into the filled-in moat and there stick fast?"

"Nay; make the ram so long that ere the wheels
shall reach the edge of the moat the battering end
will reach drawbridge and gates.  I tell thee, good
Father, we shall get to grips beneath yon frowning
gateway before many hours are past.  Have thy
men the spirit for a conflict, stark and grim, waged
with trained men in a narrow space where numbers
are of little avail?"

"I will answer for them, Sir Squire," replied the
priest quickly.  "They have no training, but they
have desperation, and that will carry them on."

"Aye, I think so too.  And now let us to work,
and make ready as quickly as we can."

All the remainder of the day the preparation for
the assault upon the castle went on with untiring
energy.  In the depths of the woods the women and
children of the village and district laboured at a
work to which they were well accustomed, cutting
down young saplings and undergrowth and carrying
them to a point in the roadway near the castle
gates, where men bound them firmly into great
bundles.

Close by, a few yards from either side of the
roadway, at the very edge of the wood, and masked
only by a thin screen of bushes, men were hard at
work constructing mangonels under Edgar's
supervision.  At another point a gang of men were
making ready the great ram on wheels which was
expected to do such execution, and at still another
a number were constructing ladders which were
intended to be placed against the walls to draw off
some of the garrison from the fight about the gates.
Even after nightfall the work was continued, and
none thought of rest until the preparations were
complete.

The first streaks of dawn had scarcely appeared
in the sky before the men were aroused from their
slumbers and marshalled for the beginning of the
assault.  Eagerly they answered to the call.  The
first fight had been won, and every man was
impatient to begin the main and final attack upon
the stronghold which harboured the last of their
lifelong foes.

Suddenly, at a signal from Edgar, streams of
men bearing huge bundles of faggots issued from
the woods at a point nearest the castle gateway,
and advanced rapidly towards the moat.  Loud
cries of alarm sounded from the walls, followed by
a hurried call to arms.  Undeterred by these signs
of resistance, the lines of men hastened to the
half-empty moat, flung their burdens in, and sped
rapidly back for more.  In a moment or two the
walls were lined with men-at-arms, and missiles
began to whistle through the air downwards upon
the scurrying men below.  But the bundles of
undergrowth held up in front were a full
protection to the men, and it was only when returning
that the missiles could take effect.  Naturally,
however, the return journey was made at top
speed by the unencumbered men, and comparatively
few were hit, and these for the most part
were but slightly injured.

Scarcely had the garrison had time to warm to
their work before, to their utter astonishment, a
loud whirring noise was heard, and a great rock
came singing upwards with a momentum that sent
it over walls and donjon into the woods on the
other side of the castle.  Ere they had recovered
from their amazement another rock, better aimed,
swept a man bodily off the walls and plunged
heavily against the upper part of the keep.

In sudden consternation, not knowing how many
engines there might be casting the great stones,
the garrison fled under cover, and left their
opponents free to do their work as they listed.  Finding,
however, that there were only two engines, the
men-at-arms presently ventured back and resumed
their task.  Forced to take refuge ever and anon
from the great stones cast upwards, their own
missiles lost much of their power, and the work of the
attackers went on wellnigh unchecked.

After little more than an hour's work the moat,
for a hundred yards on either side of the gates, was
filled and piled up to a height of three or four feet.

To allow the garrison breathing space was no
part of Edgar's policy, and with scarce a pause he
ordered his men to get ready for the assault.  He
and Peter had donned full armour, as it had been
arranged that they should lead the attack upon the
gateway as soon as bridge and gates were down.
The priest was to direct the attack upon the walls,
and try to call off as many of the garrison as
possible from the deadlier conflict beneath the gateway.

The battering-ram was wheeled out, and twenty
of the strongest peasants, covered by a line of men
on either side bearing big wooden shields,
advanced, cheering loudly, to the attack.

Again there was a shout of alarm from the garrison
at the sight of this new danger, and after a few
minutes' commotion the master of the castle, Sir
Eustace, appeared on the walls above the gate.
He was clad in full armour, and, recklessly
exposing himself to the fire of the mangonels, strove
to encourage his retainers by himself taking the
lead in hurling great stones at the bearers of the
ram.  His example was followed, and with shouts
of encouragement to one another the defenders
crowded to the ramparts and recommenced the
fusillade with the greatest energy.  A perfect rain
of stones and rocks descended upon the men
driving the ram, and for a moment the advance was
checked.

"Hang not back, men," cried Edgar with energy.
"Press forward the more quickly and our task will
be the sooner ended.  Forward!"

With a shout the line of men bent to their work,
and the great tree rolled forward with terrific
weight and momentum.  The ram was well aimed,
and with a mighty crash struck the raised drawbridge
full in the centre and split it from top to bottom.

"Back a dozen yards and then press to the attack
again," cried Edgar, and the tree, moving with
comparative ease upon the big wheels, swung back
and was urged forward once more.  Again the ram
struck the drawbridge, widening the cracks and
bending its timbers back towards the great gates behind.
Six times the ram was swung before the last
remnants of the bridge gave way before its onslaught,
leaving naught but a pile of splintered boards and
a few pieces of woodwork dangling from the chains
on either side of the gateway.

The attack had not been without its penalties.
Eight men had fallen crushed and bruised beneath
the stones flung with such furious energy by the
defenders.  Their places had been instantly taken
by fresh men, for the blood of the peasants was
now up, and none recked of the danger so long
as the attack went on unchecked.

"Now for the gates, men!" cried Edgar cheerily,
as they prepared to swing forward for the seventh
time.  The fusillade from the walls had now
slackened, for the imminence of an attack upon
the gates had compelled the defenders to
withdraw half the men from the ramparts and to
station them in the courtyard ready for the moment
when the gates had been battered down.  No one,
not even the defenders, believed that the gates
were capable of withstanding the onslaughts of
the deadly weapon devised by the attackers.

Missing the grim figure of De Brin from the
walls, Edgar hoped, with no little satisfaction, that
they would soon meet hand to hand beneath the
gateway.  So far all had gone as he had
anticipated.  Every surprise had been sprung by the
attackers, but, to his sorrow, he had yet to find that
the defenders had one or two things left to them
that he had not taken full account of.  So uniform
had been his success thus far that it seemed that
but one more effort need be made, and the castle
would be won.

Four times, with four tremendous crashes, the
ram was swung against the iron-plated gates, and
still they held.  The fifth time they gave, and fell
inwards so suddenly and completely that the ram
rolled forward almost unchecked until the wheels
sank to the axles in the mud and brushwood of
the filled-in moat.

Loudly the horns were wound, and every man
of the peasants' force rushed to do his appointed
work.  The men commanded by Father Armand
advanced in little clusters from a dozen points and
planted great ladders in position against the walls.
Led by the priest in person, they began to mount
with every sign of determination.  Again the move
was evidently unexpected by the garrison, for the
few men now left upon the walls shouted loudly
to their comrades for aid.  A number answered to
the call, and set about repelling the attack with
the utmost desperation.  Some essayed to lever
out with their halberds the ladders weighted with
their loads of climbing men, and strove to cast them
bodily backwards.  Others occupied themselves in
casting down great stones in the hope of smashing
the ladders or sweeping their occupants downwards
to destruction.

The ladder by which the priest was himself
mounting was one of the first singled out for
attention.  Ere he had reached the top and could
lift a hand to interfere, two men who had been
savagely thrusting at it with all their might
succeeded in lifting it outward a couple of feet.
Unable to thrust it farther, they gave it a savage side
jerk and let go.  Down it fell with a crash,
bringing with it another ladder just reared a yard or
two away.

Fortunately most of the men fell upon the brushwood,
and were more shaken than hurt.  The priest
himself, nothing daunted, again sprang to the
attack with a fresh ladder, and with varying
fortunes the fight went on.  Once or twice a footing
was gained upon the walls, but every time a
combined rush by the defenders flung the attackers
backwards before the footing could be made good.

Beneath the gateway the conflict was even more
fierce and deadly.  The instant the gates were
down Edgar and Peter had sprung forward,
followed by the best and strongest fighters among
the peasantry.  They were met by the most heavily
armed of the men-at-arms among the garrison, and
were opposed with fierce determination.  The
defenders knew only too well how their merciless
cruelties had inflamed the countryside against
them, and feared that if the castle were won their
own chances of mercy were slight indeed.  Thus
they bent to their work with the fierce stubbornness
born of despair.

Of De Maupas or De Brin Edgar could catch no
glimpse, and though he called their names aloud
as he fought, and challenged them to meet him
hand to hand, there was no response.  Concluding
at last that they must be directing operations from
the walls, our hero devoted all his energies to
overcoming the resistance of the defenders at the gate
and winning a way through to the courtyard.
Once a footing could be obtained inside, the
continued defence of the walls would be useless.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, Edgar and his band
fought their way onward.  Most of the execution
was done by his own and Peter's sword, for the
peasantry had neither the skill nor the weapons
to oppose the men-at-arms with much success in
a hand-to-hand combat.  The front of the fighting
beneath the gates was a narrow one, and the
peasants could fight only man to man, and were
unable to bring their superior numbers into play.
In spite of this disadvantage, however, the
defenders were driven back slowly and surely, until
Edgar felt that the moment for the final effort
had come.

"On, on!  Strike home!" he cried loudly, and
at the call his men gave a surge forward that
gained a couple of yards and brought them almost
through the gateway into the courtyard.

Suddenly a shrill whistle sounded, and, as though
by a prearranged signal, the defenders disengaged
themselves from the conflict and fled at the top of
their speed down the courtyard and round an angle
of the donjon.

With loud shouts of exultation, the peasants
surged unchecked through the gateway and began
to advance along the courtyard in pursuit of their
beaten foes.  Scarcely, however, had they taken a
dozen steps when there came a terrible interruption.
From the roof of the keep fell showers of molten
lead!  In streams and showers, burning, blinding,
and scorching, the fearful liquid fell, and the shouts
of joy were turned into screams of dreadful agony.
With one thought but to escape the fearful hail,
the men who had won their way with such dauntless
courage into the courtyard turned and flung
themselves madly back into the gateway, struggling
and fighting with those still pouring in.
Their flight was assisted by more showers of the
metal, flung in burning streams upon those massed
in the gateway, until, with one accord, the
victorious body of peasantry turned tail in utter panic
and fled headlong back across the moat to the cover
of the woods.

At this moment the thunder of horses' hoofs was
heard, and round the angle of the courtyard swept
a body of armour-clad horsemen.  Eustace de Brin,
De Maupas, and wellnigh a dozen men-at-arms
clad in full armour, in a line stretching from wall
to wall, bore down upon the already fleeing men
like a living wall of steel.  Edgar and Peter alone,
shoulder to shoulder, stood fast--not because their
courage was more unquenchable than that of their
followers, but because their mail had enabled them
to endure the burning showers better.  The charge
of the horsemen swept them headlong against the
walls of the keep.

Peter received a stunning blow upon the helmet,
and, dizzy and sick, was forced to cling to the wall
to save himself from falling.  Wielding a battleaxe
he had snatched from a stricken man-at-arms, Edgar
beat off those who assailed him, and the horsemen,
unable to stop their impetuous charge, swept heavily
onwards past him.  Some thundered through the
gateway hot upon the track of the fleeing peasants,
whilst others, after careering a dozen yards along
the courtyard, checked their steeds and prepared
to charge back again upon the only two of their
enemies yet remaining on their feet within the four
walls of the castle.

To Edgar all seemed lost.  The peasants were
in hopeless flight, and the way to safety through
the castle gates was barred by the horsemen already
spurring through.  De Maupas was one of the
horsemen who had refrained from following up the
fleeing peasantry, and seeing the hopeless plight of
the young esquire, he gave a cry of savage joy and
shouted to his companions to spur down upon him
and beat him into the dust.

To rush for the gateway, and to strive to escape
that way, meant being caught in the rear by the
charging horsemen.  This was obvious, and, with
the speed of thought, Edgar seized upon another
opening so bold and desperate that it appeared the
counsel of sheer despair.

"Quick, Peter!" he cried in sentences short and
sharp, like the jab of a sword.  "To the donjon--we
must take refuge there!  Rouse thyself, or we
are sped!"

Shaking off his dizziness as best he could, Peter
tottered towards the open door of the keep a yard
or two away.  It was guarded by two men-at-arms,
but Edgar had already attacked them with the
energy born of despair and of the ruin of all his
plans.  Swinging his axe with a strength that
crushed down all his opposition, he clove his way
through the doorway, seized the great iron-plated
door, and, as Peter sprang through, flung it
violently to behind him.

"A hand here, Peter, if thou canst!" he cried
rapidly, indicating a number of great blocks of
stone piled against the wall to halfway up the
stairs.  Dropping his axe and seizing one with
both hands, he swung it against the door.  Another
and another followed, until in a few seconds the
strength of the door was doubled and trebled by
the weight of a solid mass of great stones piled
behind.

Peter was now almost himself again, and seeing
that entry by the main gateway was effectually
barred for a time, cried excitedly:

"But what of the door from the courtyard to the
dungeons, Master Edgar?  Will they not enter
there?  If 'tis only to sell our lives dearly that thou
hast fought thy way in here, let us climb upwards
and defend ourselves upon the summit of the keep."

"'Tis not that alone, Peter, that made me dash
in hither instead of meeting De Maupas and
settling our account once and for all.  'Tis more
because I saw a glimmer of hope, remote but
clear.  As for the other door, 'twill be fast locked,
and what jailer would carry his keys to the battle?
Nay, we have a few minutes' respite--let us use
it well.  Upward, Peter, upward!  'Tis the lady
Beatrice we must next seek and succour if we can."

So saying, Edgar took the lead and sprang
quickly up the stairs.  He knew where to look,
for while in the very midst of the mêlée raging
about the outer gates he had caught a glimpse of
a hand, small and white, stretched out in mute
appeal from a little window high up in the walls
of the mighty donjon.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`The Last Hope`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX


.. class:: center large bold

   The Last Hope

.. vspace:: 2

"Hark!" cried Beatrice, springing from the couch
on which she had passed her second night at
Ruthènes.  "Hark, Jeannette, the call to arms is
once more sounding!  Dawn is breaking, and
some deadly conflict is, I feel sure, about to begin
outside."

From all sides indeed the blare of trumpets and
the shouts of the men-at-arms, as they roused
themselves from their slumbers and hastened excitedly
to obey the call, resounded through the air.  To
one accustomed to the routine of castles it was clear
that something of tremendous moment was happening,
and hurrying to the little window of their
chamber, Beatrice strove to catch a glimpse of
what was afoot.

The thickness of the walls, however, was so
great that, strain as she would, she could see no
more than a few feet of the courtyard about the
gates, and here, save for a few men-at-arms
passing to and fro, nothing unusual was going on.
Upward upon the outer walls, however, men were
clustering more thickly, and in a moment or two
they began to busy themselves in hurling down
stones upon some enemy beyond.  It was evident
that the castle was attacked.  But De Maupas had
said that Edgar Wintour was a captive: who,
then, could be the enemy?  Suddenly there was
a tremendous thud against the walls a few yards
above her head, and splinters of stone flew in all
directions.

"Oh, the castle is being battered down!" cried
Jeannette in alarm.

"Yes; that must have been a great stone cast
by a mangonel or catapult, Jeannette.  'Twill go
hard with us if one strikes here.  'Tis fortunate
our window is not above the level of the outer
walls."

"Hist, mistress--someone is at the door!"

It was true someone was at the door--someone,
too, who appeared on secrecy bent, for the approach
had been made without a sound and the key was
being turned with the greatest caution.  At last
the door swung open and De Maupas entered.

He appeared to be labouring under great excitement,
for his bearing was nervous and his looks
were disordered.

"Maiden," he cried, speaking rapidly, "I must
have thine answer to my proposal.  Wilt thou
become my bride and save the lives of Sir John and
his esquire?  Choose quickly, for we are attacked
by a cruel and infuriated peasantry, who will spare
neither age nor sex.  At any moment they may
break through our defences, for the castle is but
half-manned and the peasants are fighting like men
possessed.  If thou wilt consent I am able to
convey you all to safety outside the castle by a secret
way.  Decide quickly, or it will be too late.

"But wouldst desert thy friend?" cried Beatrice
with cool disdain.  "Perchance this is some new
ruse to obtain my consent to a proposal I abhor.
This castle is strong--why shouldst thou be so
anxious to leave it?"

"Lady, 'tis no ruse.  Your peril is great, for as
I have said, though the castle is strong the garrison
is weak.  More than half our men did we lose in a
skirmish outside the walls but yesterday.

"This is brave news thou art telling me, Sir
Gervaise," cried Beatrice, whose serene bearing
was in such contrast to the agitation of De
Maupas that their situations appeared to have
been reversed.  "These peasants will not make
war upon the tyrant's prisoners.  They will accept
as friends the victims of their oppressor."

"Think not so, lady," cried De Maupas
vehemently.  "Thou know'st not this rabble.  They
hate those of gentle blood with so deadly a hatred
that all inside these walls who are not of
themselves they will destroy.  Sir John and Edgar
Wintour will perish beneath the burning ruins,
if they have not been dragged out of their cells
and slain before the work of the torch begins."

For a moment Beatrice covered her face with her
hands, as though the thought appalled her.  Then
she answered bravely:

"I prefer the mercies of the revolted peasantry
to thine, Sir Gervaise.  As for Sir John and his
esquire, I refuse to believe that the rage of the
peasants will extend even to the poor creatures
buried alive in the castle dungeons.  Besides----"

Beatrice stopped suddenly, for loud insistent
shouts for De Maupas rang within the donjon and
outside in the castle courtyard.

"'Tis De Brin calling me," cried De Maupas
savagely, as he rushed hastily to the door.
"Think not that thou wilt escape me," he added
vengefully over his shoulder as he left the chamber.
"If the worst comes to the worst I will bear thee
hence by force."

A cry from Jeannette, who had gone to the
window while her mistress had been parleying with
De Maupas, brought back Beatrice's attention to
the conflict being waged outside.

"The gates are down, Mistress Beatrice!" the
maid cried in a voice shrill with excitement.  "See,
the defenders are gathering thickly in the breach."

Beatrice craned her neck to see, just in time to
catch the first glimpse of the great rush of the
peasantry which followed closely upon the battering-in
of the gates.  A confused medley of fiercely-fighting
men was all she could make out for some
minutes, but presently, as the defenders were
driven back inch by inch towards the courtyard,
two figures began to stand out from the press, and
she recognized with a thrill of astonishment and
joy--Edgar Wintour and his servant, Peter!  De
Maupas had lied--and they were alive and free!
Then might not Sir John also----?

The fight at the gates was growing in intensity,
and all her thoughts became concentrated on the
exciting scene.  Would they win a way through?
Beatrice was a knight's daughter and could gauge
a warrior's powers at a glance.  She could see that
the real strength of the attack lay in Edgar and
Peter alone, and that the ill-armed peasantry, brave
though they were, could make little impression on
the mail-clad and well-disciplined men-at-arms.

Nevertheless she felt, with a certainty that
surprised her, that victory would at last reward the
attackers and that the castle would be won.  She
seemed to feel that one who could play such a part
as Edgar Wintour in the lists of Bordeaux was not
born to be defeated here.  But see!--the attackers
were gathering for a last leap forward--Edgar had
raised his battle cry--Hurrah! the defenders were
fleeing headlong down the courtyard, and the castle
was won----

Ere Beatrice could cry aloud in the joy of victory,
a sudden fearful change swept over the scene.
From the roof of the donjon, somewhere above her
head, a burning hail of molten lead swept down,
and the cries of victory were quenched and smothered
in a louder burst of screams and wails.  So
dreadful were the anguished cries of many of the poor
creatures, scorched and withered by the burning
blast, that Beatrice, completely unnerved, cowered
down upon the floor and wept.

Jeannette replaced her at the lattice and, with many
ejaculations of disappointment, told of the charge
of the armour-clad horsemen and the defeat and
destruction of the broken remnants of the gallant
peasants.  Of Edgar and Peter she could see
nothing.  Knowing how loath they would be to
flee, Beatrice felt, with a crushing sense of sorrow
and disappointment, that even if they had escaped
the showers of molten lead they must of a certainty
have been overwhelmed and slain by the charging
horsemen.

She was aroused from her prostration by another
cry from Jeannette, who had turned from the window
and was hearkening, not to the clangour outside,
but to a noise that had attracted her attention
within the donjon.

"It must be De Maupas," she cried excitedly.
"I hear footsteps--doubtless it is De Maupas
returning to press his suit now that the peasants are
destroyed?"

Beatrice jumped quickly to her feet.  Her
prostration had vanished, and she faced the door with
her eyes flashing and her little hands clenched.
Jeannette could see that something had roused her
beyond measure.

"Let not De Maupas approach me after slaying
my poor friends!" she cried, stamping her foot with
anger.  "Refuse him admittance--tell him I abhor
him and will not see him."

Jeannette fled to do her bidding.  As she reached
the door, however, it suddenly opened and a man
strode hastily in, brushing aside the hand which
the maid put out to detain him.  It was Edgar
Wintour.

At the sight of him Beatrice gave a gasp and
looked as though she were about to fall.  Edgar
darted instantly to her side and took her gently
by the arms.  "Come, Beatrice," he cried, with
breathless rapidity.  "Our cause is lost, but if
thou wilt trust thyself to me I will strive yet to
save thee.  The hope is indeed faint, but at the
worst if I fail they can but compel me to surrender
thee again."

.. vspace:: 2

.. _`"'COME, BEATRICE, I WILL STRIVE YET TO SAVE THEE'"`:

.. class:: center large bold white-space-pre-line

   [Illustration: "'COME, BEATRICE, I WILL STRIVE YET TO SAVE THEE.'" 
   (missing from book)

.. vspace:: 2

"I would come," replied Beatrice vehemently,
"though there had been no hope.  But how canst
dream of escape when the courtyard is held by the
enemy?"

"Because a few days since a secret way led from
out this donjon beneath courtyard and moat into
the shelter of the woods.  If 'tis not destroyed we
may yet escape thence."

"It is not destroyed," cried Beatrice
triumphantly.  "'Tis but an hour since De Maupas
besought me to let him bear me to safety through it."

"Then we shall yet escape," cried Edgar
joyously.  "Come--no more delay, for even now
Black Eustace and his men are thundering at the
gate.  Onward, Peter--bring Jeannette, for we
must be gone."

He sprang to the door and, taking Beatrice
by the hand, hurried her along the passages
towards the stone staircase by which he had escaped
with Sir John but a few days before.  As they
passed the main stairway leading to the gate, the
sound of axe and hammer strokes reverberating
upwards made him pause.

"The door is giving way," he cried anxiously.
"I fear they will be hotfoot upon our track in a
few moments."  Raising his voice he bade Peter
hasten and hurried his companion on downwards
to the vaults below.  Scarcely had they reached
them when there was a sudden crash from above,
followed by a roar of savage cheers.

At the dread sound, Jeannette gave a scream of
terror and almost collapsed.

"Hush!" cried Edgar sharply.  "Dost wish to
bring them upon us?  Be silent as the tomb, or we
are lost."

In another moment they reached the level of
the dungeons and were within sight of the flight
of steps leading downwards to the door of
the underground passage.  Most anxiously Edgar
gazed before him into the gloom.  It might well
be that a guard had been posted.

No sign of a guard was to be seen, but a barricade
of some sort appeared to have been erected at
the head of the stairs.  Could it be that the way
was blocked after all?  Running quickly to the
spot, Edgar saw that what he had taken to be
a barricade was a pile of great blocks of stone,
similar to those heaped about the staircase, no
doubt placed ready to fling down and block the
way of an enemy advancing through the underground
passage.  The steps themselves were clear,
and with a deep sigh of relief Edgar turned to his
companions and once more bade them hasten.

There was of a truth no time to lose.  The cheers
from above had died away, but the more ominous
rattle and clank of armed and mail-clad men
advancing down the winding staircase was to be
heard in its place.  It was clear that De Brin or
De Maupas had guessed that Edgar's object in
taking refuge in the keep had been to escape by
the underground passage, and that they were seeking
him first in that direction.  A bare half-minute
would see them upon the scene.

"Canst not hew down the door?" cried Peter, as
Edgar hesitated for a moment.

"Take my axe and give me thy sword," replied
Edgar curtly.  "Do thou hew it down while I
defend the passage against our pursuers.  Thou
shalt save time.  On, Peter, on!"

Peter seized the axe, sprang down the steps, and
without an instant's pause attacked the door.  After
the first blow he gave a startled exclamation.

"What is it?" cried Edgar, turning as he was
about to advance towards the enemy now almost
at the foot of the stone stairway.

"The door is open!" cried Peter in an awed
tone.  "I fear a trap!"

"Either 'tis a trap or there is a sentinel stationed
at the farther end," cried Edgar.  "But we cannot
now draw back.  Onward, lad, and win a way
through.  Maidens, I beseech ye heed not the
darkness but descend and follow closely upon Peter."

Peter moved onwards into the gloomy cavern,
followed by the shrinking maidens, while Edgar
stayed where he was, leaning quietly against the
blocks of stone.  For all his easy posture, the half
darkness of the underground passage hid a face
grown pale and anxious, for the peril in which the
party now stood was extreme.  It was not the
advance of the body of men, who, carrying torches
and headed by Sir Eustace de Brin in person, were
now bearing rapidly down upon him, that filled him
with anxiety.  These he was prepared to oppose
with the utmost desperation.  It was the thought
that sentinels might be posted at the farther end
of the tunnel, and that Peter might be unable to
cleave a way to freedom with his charges, that made
his heart sink with a sickening feeling of dread.





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.. _`Through the Darkness`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI


.. class:: center large bold

   Through the Darkness

.. vspace:: 2

Meanwhile events were moving with equal rapidity
above-ground.  The charge of Sir Eustace and
his men-at-arms across the filled-in moat had
completely dispersed the last of the peasants still
remaining in the open.  The priest had done
his best to rally his men and to resist the
horsemen, but his followers were infected by the panic
which had seized upon those who had been
engaged in storming the gates, and would not stand.
He himself was wounded and must have been
slain had not several of the more courageous of his
band seized him and dragged him into the woods
by force.

Once in the thickets the peasants were safe, and,
realizing the folly of pursuing them with so small
a force as he had at his disposal, De Brin contented
himself with leading his men against the peasants
still working at the mangonels.  These fled hastily
at his approach, and his men promptly proceeded
to heap faggots around the machines.  A light was
procured, and, amid the cheers of the men-at-arms,
the flames shot up until the engines were in the
midst of a huge bonfire.

At this moment De Maupas spurred rapidly from
out the castle and sought De Brin.  His vizor was
raised, and on his face was a look of savage joy.
"Ho, there, Eustace!" he cried.  "Their leader,
this Edgar Wintour, hath taken refuge in the
donjon.  Doubtless he hopeth to escape through
the underground passage.  Quick, close this end,
and he will be snugly trapped!"

"Ha, ha!" laughed De Brin.  "If 'tis so, then
he hath saved us much trouble, and mayhap
provided us with some rare sport.  Do thou, De
Maupas, remain here, and see that he receiveth a
warm reception if he seeketh to emerge this end.
I, for my part, will see that his hot blood runs
chilly in his veins before we have done with him.
Ha, ha!  But first we must seal him up completely
within the cavern."

With a look of cruel anticipation upon his face
that might of itself have chilled Edgar's blood had
he been there to see it, Black Eustace spurred back
through the gates and took charge of the men
already engaged in hewing down the door of the
donjon.  As soon as the door showed signs of
weakening, he drew aside two of the men and sent them
on an errand that took them outside the walls.

Here the men looked about them for some moments
before seizing upon one of the big ladders
constructed by the peasants.  The uprights were
thick and strong, and one of these was knocked away
from the crosspieces and the end carefully pointed.
For what purpose these preparations were made
was not apparent, but, from the haste with which
the men completed their work, it seemed that they
had at least some connection with the plight of the
two fugitives in the castle donjon.

De Maupas had for some moments gazed thoughtfully
around him before he set about his part of the
task of destroying the fugitives.  His eyes fell upon
the great bonfire which now marked the spot whence
the mangonels had discharged their deadly missiles,
and with a grim smile he directed the men about
him to pick up some of the big bundles of brushwood
that had been left over when the filling-in of
the moat had been accomplished.  Then he led the
way to the tiny glade where the tree with the hollow
trunk had stood when Edgar had escaped with Sir
John a short time before.  Pointing to a certain spot
in the ground, he directed his men to fling down their
bundles and scoop away the earth.  A large flagstone
was soon disclosed, and on its being lifted a
black pit, down which led a flight of steep stone
steps, yawned before them.  Kneeling, De Maupas
called:

"Bruyard!  Ho, there!  Bruyard!"

After a moment's pause, a muffled voice replied:

"Who calleth?"

"De Maupas.  Come hither!"

The noise of the opening and shutting of a door
next ascended to the ears of the men above, and
presently a man-at-arms appeared.  He climbed
the steep steps in leisurely fashion, and then stood
blinking in the sunlight.

"What is it ye want, Sir Knight?" he asked surlily.

"Hast locked the door?" asked De Maupas impatiently.

"Nay, I have not.  What need, if the enemy is
driven off?"

"No matter," replied De Maupas shortly.
"Come, men, pile your faggots about these steps,
and hasten back for more.  We will make a merry
blaze, for I expect visitors from yon dismal depths.
Pile the faggots high, and let us see if they will
escape by the secret way a second time."

With a roar of savage enjoyment the men
hastened to obey.  They now saw the object of the
move, and with many a joke to one another they
hauled great bundles of wood to the fatal spot with
every sign of gusto.

A brand was brought from the blazing mangonels,
and the pile ignited.  It blazed up and
burned fiercely.  Heavier and thicker pieces of
wood were then flung on until the exit from the
tunnel was ringed about with a veritable wall of
fire.  Satisfied that any man who attempted to
plunge through such a furnace must perish
miserably, De Maupas strolled up and down, awaiting
with some impatience the news that the fugitives
had indeed taken refuge in the tunnel, and that
De Brin had succeeded in sealing up the castle end.

As he paced the greensward he noticed the two
men who had been sent upon an errand by De Brin.
They were just then busily engaged in sharpening
the end of a long thick pole which they had obtained.

"What is this?" asked De Maupas.  "Who set
ye on to this, and for what purpose?"

"De Brin," replied one of the men laconically,
giving his thumb a jerk in the direction of the castle
gates.  Then he indicated the moat, and ejaculated:
"Cold water."

De Maupas stared at the man for a moment in
some perplexity.  Then the truth dawned upon
him, and he went off into a fit of laughter.

"Ha, ha!  Now I see what De Brin meant.
Chill his hot blood--ha, ha!  But even he knoweth
not the final reception we have prepared for his
uninvited guests.  Ha, ha, ha!"

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



"Yield thyself!" cried De Brin, bearing down
upon Edgar as he stood, sword in hand, at the
head of the stairs leading to the underground
tunnel.  "Yield thyself, for thou art trapped!"

"I will yield myself when thou hast vanquished
me, De Brin," replied Edgar, fencing vigorously
as their blades clashed together.  "How hast thou
trapped me?"

"Thou seekest to escape through the passage, as
once before.  Know then that the farther end is
guarded by thine enemy, De Maupas, and a dozen
men.  Thy friend, the priest, and all his flock are in
full flight, and all is lost."

Edgar could not but believe.  He had hoped that
his pursuers would ransack the donjon for him
before coming to the conclusion that he had flown
to the tunnel for refuge.  But unfortunately for
him they had guessed that he would make for the
passage, and had sealed it up.  And with him were
the two maidens.

The responsibility of their charge was crushing.
Had there been only Peter he would, with a light
heart enough, have dashed for the farther end in
an attempt to break through, though to be unsuccessful
was death.  But his heart almost failed him
when he thought of the terrible situation of the
ladies.  In his preoccupation he gave ground
before De Brin's onslaught, and in a minute or
two was driven back to the head of the flight of
steps.  Here he stood his ground for a few
moments, and then, after feinting fiercely and
compelling De Brin to give back, sprang down the steps
to the open door below.

At this moment a man-at-arms pressed through
the body of men about their leader, and whispered
a few words in the knight's ear.

The effect was electrical.

"Ho, there!  Edgar Wintour!" cried De Brin
furiously.  "Madman that thou art, they tell me
that thou hast carried away the lady Beatrice and
her maid with thee.  'Tis to certain death thou art
dragging them.  Yield them up, fool!  There is
escape neither for them nor for thee."

"If thou wilt promise to let them ride hence in
peace, I will yield them up," replied Edgar quickly.

"Bah!" cried De Brin.  "Thou hast yet to learn
how completely thou art trapped.  Let this teach thee!"

As he spoke the black knight set his weight
against one of the huge blocks of stone piled by
the head of the flight of steps.  It moved, and
bounded down the slope with tremendous weight
and force.  Luckily for Edgar it struck the massive
doorpost, and did not come full into the doorway,
or he must have been struck down and perhaps
killed outright.  Dreading lest such a mass of stone
should bound along the tunnel and perhaps reach
the ladies, our hero whipped the door to and put
his weight against it.

Somewhat to Edgar's surprise, De Brin made no
attempt to force the door, but instead ordered his
men to hurl down upon it the piled-up blocks of
stone.  For some minutes a perfect avalanche of
these rolled and bounded down upon the door,
and every minute Edgar feared that it would be
burst open.  In the hope of adding a little to its
strength he kept his weight against it, though the
shock of each stone jarred him to the bone.  At last
the well formed by the steps began to be filled, and
the jar and shock lessened until but a slight tremor
followed as the rocks were still flung down.  Soon
the work was complete, and the castle end of the
passage was blocked by a mass of stone that it would
take hours' work by a score of men to clear away.

There was no more to be done there, and with a
heavy heart Edgar left the door, and made his way
along the tunnel.  In the far distance a light had
sprung up, and he guessed that Peter had managed
to obtain a spark and had lit one of the torches
they had been careful to snatch from the wall before
they left the upper room.

"What was that dreadful noise?" asked Beatrice
anxiously, as Edgar joined them.  "It echoed along
the passage until we thought giants indeed must be
battering at the door."

"Nay, 'tis worse even than that, Beatrice,"
replied Edgar solemnly.  "They have hurled down
stones and walled us in."

"Well, is not that good news?  They cannot
pursue, and if we hasten we shall escape before
they can cut off our retreat.  Peter telleth me that
we are almost through this dreadful passage."

"They have already cut off our retreat, Beatrice,"
replied Edgar.  "Like a fool, I have brought thee
into nothing but a trap.  De Brin taunted me that
the farther end was guarded, and I fear 'tis true.  I
had hoped that ye would all have been out long ere
this.  What hath delayed thee, Peter?  The little
chance that once we had hath, I fear, gone for ever.

"We came upon some obstruction in the passage,
Master Edgar," replied Peter earnestly, "and I dared
not go on with the ladies in the darkness, not knowing
what pitfalls might lie in wait for us.  I stopped
to light a torch, and my flint and steel work none
too fast in this damp and dismal dungeon.  But
here is the door, and I see no sentinel."

"Was yon great chest the obstruction?  Didst open it?"

"Nay, I would not stop.  Shall I go batter it in?"

"Nay, let us press on and test the strength of
the guard about this end.  Perchance, after all,
when the good priest heareth the sound of a conflict,
he may bring down some of his men and make an
attack.  We might then break through.  Come,
hew down that door."

"How stifling is this passage, Edgar!" cried
Beatrice appealingly.  "The heat is becoming
dreadful.  Whence cometh it?"

"I cannot understand it," replied Edgar, whose
face, in spite of his brave words of hope, had grown
grey and pinched.  "No such heat was here when
last we--  But see!--what is that light that glinteth
beneath the door?  Give me the axe, Peter!  Something
is going on beyond that barrier that giveth me
fears I never felt before."

Swinging the axe with feverish impatience, he
smote the lock with tremendous force.  The door
instantly flew open, and a glare of light and a wave
of hot air burst in upon them, blinding and scorching
them so fiercely that, with one impulse, they
fled backwards a dozen paces into the shelter or
the passage.

"What is this--dreadful fate--thou hast brought
us into, Edgar?" cried Beatrice in gasps, as Jeannette
sank to the ground by her side in a deep swoon.
"Are we, then, to be choked and scorched alive?"

"Reproach me not, Beatrice," replied Edgar in
a tremulous voice, almost unmanned by the terrible
plight into which he had unwittingly brought the
two maidens.  "I told thee the hope of escape was
faint, but I never dreamed that such a fearful end
might be in store for us."

"Forgive me, Edgar," cried Beatrice impulsively,
placing her hand gently on the young esquires
arm.  "I was overhasty in my alarm.  I am a
warrior's daughter, and I will not play the coward
again."

"'Tis nothing.  Myself I shall not forgive,"
muttered Edgar.  In his prostration he had sunk
back against the wall, his arms resting on the haft
of his great axe and his head bowed down upon
them.  For a few minutes he was silent with the
silence of despair.  Then he resolutely roused
himself from his stupor.  "Come," he said, "we are
in no immediate danger here, except it be from
stifling.  Let us retreat back beneath the moat.  It
will be cooler there."

Headed by Peter with the torch, the little party
threaded its way in dumb despair back into the
deeper recesses of the tunnel, Edgar bearing the
limp form of the insensible Jeannette.  On arriving
at the spot where the great iron-bound chest
half-blocked the passage, Peter halted and proposed
that they should seat themselves.  Jeannette was
laid upon the top of the box and Beatrice took her
seat upon it, while Edgar and Peter stood at her
side, conversing in low tones upon the hopeless
situation in which they found themselves.  The
spot at which they had halted was, as near as they
could judge, beneath the castle moat, and the air
was far cooler than at the end towards the fire.

"At least they cannot reach us," said Edgar
presently.  "The fire which bars our escape
equally bars their attack.  If they have no desire
to encounter us hand to hand beneath the ground,
they will have to keep the fires burning night
and day."

"That will not be difficult with the woods so
close at hand," replied Peter, shaking his head.
"They will know that after a day or two we shall
be weakened by hunger and thirst."

"But if the priest liveth he will guess the reason
of these great fires, and will gather men to harass
De Brin.  They will find it hard to maintain
themselves."

"I fear the Father will be dead.  When De Brin
and his men swept across the broken drawbridge,
doubtless he would head the peasants.  Who so
likely to be slain?"

"Hark!" exclaimed Beatrice suddenly.  "Surely
that is the sound of knocking I hear above my head?"

Both men ceased talking and listened intently.

A slow and measured beat could be heard distinctly.
Even as they listened it seemed to increase
in volume, until it sounded as though someone
were striking the roof above their heads with a
muffled sledge.

Peter stared at his young master wide-eyed.
Stout-hearted and faithful though he was, even he
seemed to have been struck with fear at last.

"They are----" he began.

"Hush!" whispered Edgar warningly, turning
away and again leaning head and arms on the haft
of his great axe.

"What is it, Edgar?" asked Beatrice softly,
placing her hand gently on the young man's
shoulder.  "Hide it not from me.  Thou wilt, I
hope, find that I can show fortitude when need be."

"I doubt it not," replied Edgar in a breaking
voice.  "But can I bring thee to such a pass and
see thee perish unmoved?"

"But what is it?" reiterated Beatrice appealingly.
"What meaneth this knocking which grows
louder every moment?  Look!  The very wall
seems to shake beneath these mysterious blows."

"Aye.  It meaneth, Beatrice, that Black Eustace
or blacker De Maupas is driving in the tunnel
where it passes beneath the moat.  Doubtless they
are using an iron bar or a baulk of wood.  Their
unknightly and shameful plot is to drown us like
rats, or to compel us to run the gauntlet of their
fires.  A few minutes and one or other fate is ours."

Horror-struck, Beatrice gazed at the roof of the
passage, now perceptibly quivering beneath the
blows from above.  Already the water was trickling
in between the widening cracks of the masonry
and running in tiny streams down the wall to their
feet.  Once a block of stone had been driven in,
an onrush of water must ensue that would quickly
fill the tunnel.  Though the dam that had held up
the waters of the moat had been broken down, the
stream water still flowed in volume sufficient to fill
the tunnel a hundred times over.

"I must return to the mouth of the tunnel and
seek speech with De Brin," cried Edgar, suddenly
starting to his feet after contemplating the
widening cracks in gloomy silence.  "Better that thou
shouldst wed De Maupas, evil fate though it be,
than that thou shouldst perish thus miserably here."

"Nay, Edgar," replied Beatrice firmly.  "Thou
shalt do no such thing.  'Tis for me to say which
fate is the better, and I elect to perish here among
friends rather than to live elsewhere among enemies.
Calm thyself and fret not at this mischance.
*I* reproach thee not."

In spite of his agitation, Edgar could not help
gazing in sheer admiration at his companion.  She
seemed the calmest and most unconcerned of the
three.  His attention was then caught by Peter's
movements.

The lad had, half-absentmindedly, prized open
with his dagger a loose board near the top of the
great chest.  He had then plunged in his hand and
taken out a handful of its contents, which seemed
to be merely black dry earth.  Holding the
substance close to the torch, he examined it in some
perplexity.

"What hast thou there, Peter?" eagerly asked
Edgar, in whose mind a suspicion of the truth had
already begun to dawn.

"I know not.  'Tis a handful of black grains, of
which the chest seems full."

"Ha!" ejaculated Edgar with a gasp of
excitement, reaching out and drawing Peter's hand to
him.  "'Tis that mysterious new powder of which
we have heard of late.  It possesseth a strange and
mighty power which some think will bring great
changes.  I have heard it said[#] that it showeth
promise of becoming a force to be reckoned with in
warfare, even by knights clad in full armour."


[#] Gunpowder was used at Crécy shortly afterwards.
It had, of course,
been used in battle by the Venetians years before.


"What doth it here?" asked Peter, glancing at
the chest with sudden awe.

"'Twas not here when last we came this way, and
perchance Black Eustace, hearing of the unrest
among his vassals, thought to overawe them by
this strange and wellnigh supernatural force.  Our
sudden attack, and the rapid blows we never ceased
to strike, have given him no opportunity to make
use of his dread possession.  Lift down the maid,
Peter, and let us prize open the lid."

Peter obeyed, and in a moment the great chest
lay open before them.  It was full almost to the
brim with the little black grains.

"A way of escape is opening before us!" cried
Edgar, in a voice which vibrated with a new and
mighty hope.  "Beatrice, wilt thou permit us to
leave thee and thy maid while we make a last
attempt to carve a way to freedom?  The risk is
great, and it may well prove that we shall burst
in the gates of death rather than wedge open those
of life.  But to remain here is to abandon hope."

For a moment Beatrice hesitated.  The thought
of being left alone with the insensible Jeannette in
the gloomy tunnel evidently terrified her.  In a
moment or two, however, she answered bravely:
"I will stay, Edgar."

"Then follow to the far end.  We will leave
thee a torch.  Come, Peter, not an instant is to
be lost--see how the water begins to gush through
in streams!"

Rapidly Beatrice and Jeannette were conveyed to
the castle end of the passage.  Then the two young
men sped quickly back to the great chest, replaced
the lid, and lifted and carried it along in the
opposite direction.  Soon they reached the place where
the door stood open, admitting the glare and heat
of the great fires burning fiercely above.

"Set this down for a moment," cried Edgar,
dragging the door to.  He then seized his axe and
attacked the hinges which held it in position.  A
dozen heavy blows rained down with the fierce
rapidity of one fighting for his life, and the door
fell outwards with a crash, letting in again the
fierce glare which had been momentarily shut out.

As the door fell, the sound of cheers, followed
by loud laughter, became audible.  Evidently the
thunder of the axe strokes had reached the ears of
the men above, and had been received by them as
evidence that the fugitives, driven frantic by the
fear of an inrush of water, had thoughts of making
an effort to break through the ring of fire.

"Wilt yield thee now, braggart esquire?" rang
out the stentorian voice of De Brin, high above the
crackling of the fires.

"Doubtless--an he gets the chance," answered
De Maupas with a loud laugh of derision.

The sally was received with a roar of laughter
from the assembled men-at-arms, whose enjoyment
of the anticipated proceedings seemed great.  At
last they were obtaining some return for the alarms
and defeats inflicted upon them by the despised
peasantry.

"We shall see," muttered Edgar to himself as
he darted out into the blazing heat about the steps,
lifted the door, and bore it back into the tunnel.
Then he again darted out, and with quick swings
of the foot scattered the heap of burning brands at
the foot of the steps until a space was cleared.  The
heat was great--wellnigh insupportable.

"Now, Peter," he gasped, once more bounding
back into the partial shelter of the passage, "aid
me to carry the chest to the foot of the steps.  'Tis
our last and only hope."

Livid with superstition and fear, Peter obeyed.
The box was quickly lifted to the foot of the steps
and there set down.  Then Peter darted back into
the tunnel and Edgar followed, grasping the door
as he passed and carrying it along with him.

The peril was tremendous, for at any moment
the burning brands which dropped and rolled
down the steps with every puff of wind might set
light to the box and explode its contents.
Knowing this, Edgar strained every nerve to put as
much space between himself and the fires as possible.
Half the length of the passage was traversed
in safety, and then, with the thought of Beatrice in
his mind, he called Peter back and raised the door
upright so that it nearly closed the tunnel.

"Aid me to hold it thus, Peter.  Set all thy weight
against it.  Perchance we may then keep the flame
from penetrating to our charges.  I know not much
of this powder, but I fear the explosion will be
terrible."

For nearly half a minute the two young men
waited, holding the massive door in position.
Then with a mighty roar and flash the explosion
came.  The noise was terrific, and the shock made
the very earth tremble.  The door was blown back
flat, dashing the two young men to the ground like
straws, and a rush of hot air sped over them like a
hurricane.  Jumping to their feet the instant it had
passed, they lifted the door back into position and
held it there, choking and gasping with the thick
fumes and smoke of the fiery blast.

For a moment there was a calm, followed by
the ominous sound of falling objects as the
rocks, flung into the air by the explosion, dropped
heavily back to the ground.  Then all was still
again.

"Prop this in position while we go back and see
how fared the lady Beatrice," gasped Edgar.  "If
all is well with her, I believe we may yet win
through to safety."

Back through the passage beneath the moat,
now knee-deep in water, the young men pressed.
The torch had been blown out by the rush of air,
and all was pitchy dark.

"Beatrice!  Beatrice!" shouted Edgar loudly.

"Here--I am safe--but in sore distress," came
the reply, and with a cry of triumph Edgar sprang
to her side.

Half-choked by the smoke and fumes, with torch
blown out and knee-deep in water, Beatrice's heart
had almost failed her, not knowing how her friends
had fared exposed to the nearer shock of the dread
explosion.  Had they perished, her plight and that
of poor Jeannette, whom she bore in her arms, would
have been mournful indeed.

Burning with a desire to see the last of the
passage which had almost become their tomb,
Edgar lifted Jeannette without a word, grasped
Beatrice by the hand, and stumbled back along
the tunnel, Peter going on ahead.  A faint light
could be seen gleaming in the distance, and full
of hope that the way lay open to the sky, they
pressed on faster and faster.

Two-thirds of the length of the passage had been
traversed when they encountered great heaps of
fallen earth and masonry, over the top of which
the gleam of daylight dimly struggled.  Crawling
and scrambling on all-fours as best they could,
they made their way onward still, until at last they
emerged into the open air in the midst of a great
pit torn in the earth by the force of the explosion.

The air was still sultry with the heat of the fires,
burning embers and blackened branches lay strewn
about in all directions, and a thin veil of smoke lay
over all.  But not a sign of life was there, save
upon the walls of the castle, where one or two
figures could be seen peeping fearfully over the
battlements.

Clambering up the side of the pit, the little party
plunged hurriedly into the woods.  The fate of the
soldiery who had revelled about the fires they knew
not, but they had no mind to be recaptured after
all the terrors and privations they had endured.
Even when well within the shelter of the woods,
they still pressed breathlessly onward until they
met a party of the peasants approaching the scene
of the strange explosion with slow and timid steps.
At the sight of Edgar's party they stopped and made
as though to flee.

"Where is Father Armand?" cried Edgar
quickly.  "Fear not--we are flesh and blood.
Take us to Father Armand--if he still lives."

With their fear changed into amazement the
peasants clustered about the fugitives with every
manifestation of joy and gladness.  Then, at Edgar's
repeated request, they led the way for a few
hundred yards through the woods to where a larger
number of the peasantry were gathered, doubtless
awaiting the report of their scouts before venturing
to approach the scene of the explosion.  In their
midst, supporting himself against the trunk of a
tree, was Father Armand.  At the sight of Edgar
and his companions he gave a cry of pleasure, and,
wounded as he was, made shift to stumble towards
them with hands eagerly outstretched.

"All hope had I given up of seeing you again,"
he cried in a voice trembling with emotion.  "I
feared that you had stayed to fight on, and had
been beaten down at last.  Thank God you are safe!"

"Thank God indeed!" replied Edgar reverently,
"for were it not for a strange discovery at the last
moment we must have met a dreadful fate.  Almost
we were spent."

"That dread noise and quaking of the earth
was it then thy doing?"

"Aye, Father; but of that I will tell thee later.
Canst now have these maidens taken to a place of
calm and safety, where some of the peasant women
may minister to them?  They have been through
a trial this day that might well shake the courage
of men used to facing death in many forms."

"They shall be taken to the cave, and there
treated with loving care and hospitality," cried the
priest; and calling two of his men he sent them
off running to the village.  Soon they were back
with two women, who took charge of the maidens,
and set out with them for the shelter of the cave.

With the departure of the ladies, Edgar's thoughts
turned again to the task still remaining
unaccomplished.  Their enemies had no doubt been thrown
into a panic by the strange and unexpected
explosion, and, though exhausted and nerve-shaken, he
felt reluctant to lose an opportunity of subduing
them before they had had time to recover.  So he
proposed to Father Armand that he should lead
those among the peasantry whose courage was still
unbroken to the attack of the castle once more.
The spirits of the depressed peasants had risen
considerably at the appearance of the second of
their leaders, and when the priest called for
volunteers to follow Edgar nearly all responded.

Without a moment's delay, and straight forward
to the gates of the castle, Edgar led the men.
Crossing the filled-in moat, the band pressed
through the gateway, and found their way barred
by the merest handful of the defenders of the
castle.  At the first attack these, dumbfounded and
dispirited, threw down their arms and surrendered.

Directing several men to take charge of the
prisoners and to treat them well, Edgar next made
for the door of the keep.  This again was weakly
defended, and he realized that almost without a
stroke the castle had been won.  What, then, could
have become of De Brin and De Maupas?  Could
they have perished in the explosion?

Questioning the prisoners, Edgar found that only
a bare half-dozen of burnt and panic-stricken men
had succeeded in making their way back into the
castle from the circle of fires in the woods.  From
none of these could news be obtained of their
leaders, and it could only be concluded that they
had been blown to pieces in company with the
major part of their followers.

Desirous of avoiding the giving-up of the castle
to promiscuous plunder, Edgar posted a guard at
the gates, and withdrew with the rest of the band to
the woods.  Amid the rapturous cheers of the
peasantry he reported their success to Father Armand.
The good priest was indeed overjoyed to hear that
the power of the oppressors of his flock was broken
at last, and that no more bloodshed need be incurred.

With Edgar's desire to prevent indiscriminate
plundering he heartily agreed, and a plan was
quickly arranged by which all that was useful and
valuable in the castle might be saved and used for
the common good, and the building then be razed
to the ground.

This arrangement was carried out to the letter,
and in a day or two the site which had been
disgraced by the grim Castle of Ruthènes bore
nothing but a heap of tumbled ruins.  No more
could the mercenaries of the castle sally out and
burn and destroy without let or hindrance, and no
more need the poor villagers live in hourly dread of
violence and extortion.

The survivors of the garrison were given the
choice of settling down in the neighbourhood,
where they could be kept under observation, or of
being conducted over the mountains into Spain,
well out of harm's way.  Most elected to take the
former offer, and were soon living on good terms
with their erstwhile enemies.

As Father Armand and Edgar well knew, such
summary justice might in ordinary times have
brought a fresh body of soldiery to the spot, intent
to rivet a yoke, perchance every whit as irksome,
afresh upon their necks.  But the confusion caused
by the invasion of the English was so great that
they had hopes that it might pass unnoticed.

Indeed, the invasion of the English was followed
closely by the fearful depredations of the Free
Companies and the general insurrection of the
peasantry.  Convulsed by these successive blows,
France had little time or energy to spare for
internal affairs, and if the news of the capture of
Ruthènes ever reached the ears of the authorities,
they were too much occupied to take any action, and
the matter was allowed to fade into the obscurity of
the past.





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.. _`The Last of Ruthènes`:

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   CHAPTER XXII


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   The Last of Ruthènes

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The shock and strain of their trying ordeal beneath
the castle moat was so great that it was some days
before the lady Beatrice and her maid were sufficiently
recovered to leave the shelter of their quiet
retreat on the slopes of the mountains.  They were
tended devotedly by the kindly women-folk of the
peasantry, and regularly visited by Edgar and
Peter; but even so, it was nearly a week before
Beatrice, eager to be gone though she was, could
pronounce herself fit to travel on horseback.

When the news of their approaching departure
was told to Father Armand he showed much concern.

"Deeply sorry shall I be to lose thee," he said
to Edgar in a voice in which there was more than
a trace of sadness.  "I know that thy path and
mine must diverge widely and that I shall never see
thee more.  We have been comrades, and stood
shoulder to shoulder for a brief space, and it wrings
my heart that it must be so no more.  But come,
'tis useless to dwell upon our sorrows; the last act
in the story of the freeing of Ruthènes is about to
commence, and at least thou wilt stay to witness it?"

"What act is that, Father?  The castle is now
razed to the ground, and all seemeth already over."

"Nay, there is still one thing more to be done.
Ye men of war think that once the citadel is
captured all is done that is worth doing.  Stay with
us for a few short hours and then all will be
ready."

Edgar assented gladly enough, for the thoughts
of a final parting from the brave old priest were far
from pleasing.  The time was occupied in preparations
for the departure, and when a summons came
from Father Armand to meet him before the castle
ruins all was in readiness for the journey.

Leading their horses through the wood, the little
party presently emerged on the strip of sward which
once surrounded the castle, and found themselves
in the presence of an assemblage of the whole of
the peasantry of the neighbourhood, drawn up in
orderly array as though summoned to a ceremony.
In front stood the priest, and as the ladies, Edgar,
and Peter came into sight he beckoned them to
approach.  The contrast was great.  Father Armand
was robed as for Mass, while Edgar and Peter had
donned most of their armour, and looked as martial
as could be.

"'Tis a simple act I have now to perform," the
priest said with solemn dignity, in a voice which
reached to the farthest point of the assembly.  "The
emblem of cruelty and oppression is gone, and in
its place I purpose to plant emblems of new life,
pure and undefiled, which shall be to my people a
sign of new hopes, new progress, and new joys."

Turning towards several young men and maidens
clad in white near him, the priest spread his hands
to heaven, and besought that a blessing might
descend upon the act they were appointed to
perform.  Then he signed to the others to commence,
and, with slow and subdued tread, the young men
and maidens scattered over the ruins, bearing young
shrubs, shoots, and climbing plants, and began to
plant them everywhere.

"As these plants blot out the ugly blood-stained
wreck of the stronghold of Eustace de
Brin, so I trust will the memory and the injury
of the wicked deeds this place has known grow
dim and fade away.  As the new shoots spring
up to heaven so shall our faith in God and His
goodness receive fresh life until we are a new
people."

Reverently the priest spoke, and reverently his
people listened and watched until the simple task
was ended.  Still the priest spoke to them, warning
them that they let not slip the chance of fuller life
and growth.  Gently, too, he chided them that
naught would be gained were the yoke of their
oppressors but exchanged for an inward yoke of
unrestrained selfishness or indulgence.

To Edgar the simple act, and the gentle, earnest
words with which it was accompanied, seemed
deeply impressive.  The profession of arms, of
which he had till then thought so highly, seemed
to shrink and to become mean and transient when
brought into contact with the healing powers of the
good old priest.  Almost he regretted that the
future held out no hopes of his being able to
relinquish the trade of arms, and to follow a
profession more peaceful and more fraught with benefit
to the world at large.

Presently Father Armand began to refer to their
visitors' approaching departure.

"In the sudden appearance of Sir Squire here at
the moment when our need was greatest I see the
finger of God, and to God our thanks are firstly
due.  But we must yet tell our friend how much
we owe him and his comrade for the dauntless
courage with which they led us peasants, ignorant
of the art of war, to the assault of the mighty castle
upon whose dust we stand.  How wisely they counselled
us and how gallantly they led us, ever taking
the foremost and heaviest tasks upon their own
shoulders!  Upon these maidens, whose misfortunes
were the cause of our doughty friends' appearance,
we bestow our blessing, and we trust that
the memory of their sufferings may soon be blotted
out in happiness and joy.

"Sir Squire hath refused to accept any presents
from the contents of the castle, save only two
mounts for the ladies from the best steeds the
stables could provide.  With those chargers and
our thanks we must bid Godspeed to them, hoping
that such a dread experience as the siege beneath
the castle moat may never again be thrust upon
them.  Farewell, true friends, farewell!"

The priest advanced and embraced each of the
party in turn, while the simple peasant folk crowded
about, and, with many ejaculations of gratitude,
signified in their own way their thanks for the
strong and timely aid rendered them in their fight
for freedom.  As soon as he could, Edgar gave the
signal for the party to mount, and with a last
farewell they rode slowly and thoughtfully from the
scene.

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The shadow which lay over the Wolsingham
ladies and their escort all the time they were in
the neighbourhood of Ruthènes gradually lifted as
they left the thick, dark woods and the slopes of
the Pyrenees behind them.  More and more freely
they rode, until they were almost as gay as in their
departure from Wolsingham but a month or
two--though it seemed a lifetime--before.

Edgar took the journey in easy stages.  True,
Sir John would be anxiously awaiting their return;
but the ladies were still scarcely recovered from
their ordeal, and he had no mind to make any
calls upon their endurance.  Besides, somehow he
seemed to look forward to the time when he should
hand his charges over to his master with strangely
little eagerness.  So they lingered somewhat, and
enjoyed to the full their journey through the
beautiful land which was so soon to be devastated by
invasion and internal strife.  Beatrice, too, seemed
to be content, and made no complaint that the pace
was slow.  One day Edgar had been speaking of
Sir John, and wondering whether he would now
be recovered sufficiently to take his place with the
earl's force, which had doubtless by this time moved
forward.

"Wilt thou stay with Gertrude in Bordeaux or
travel to Faucigny, Beatrice?" he asked.

"I know not, Edgar," she replied.  "I wish
with all my heart that we might take Sir John back
to Wolsingham.  I am sure he will not be really
strong enough for more campaigning for months
to come."

"Ah--then I fear I shall have to bid you all a
long adieu."

"Why--what meanest thou?  Thou must come,
of course."

"Nay, how can I?  If Sir John cannot lead the
Wolsingham men-at-arms against the foe, he will
be certain to bid me take his place."

"That must not be.  I will myself speak to Sir
John.  Thou hast warred enough--let others do
their share.  Thou oughtest now to settle down in
peace."

"Ah--'tis the impossible of which thou speakest.
Thou know'st, surely, that I have naught but my
sword.  'Tis easy for those with broad acres to
speak of peace, but for me, war and preparations
for war are my sustenance."

"Take, then, of my acres--my possessions in
Guienne, take them in part payment of my debt
to thee.  With our country at war with the King
of France, they will need a strong arm indeed to
defend them if they are not to be lost for ever."

Edgar's face flushed.  "Nay----" he began,
and then stopped suddenly.  Absorbed in the
conversation he had been caught napping.  He and
his companion had been riding some paces in
advance of Peter and the maid, and had topped a
rise without taking any precaution to see first what
might be beyond it.  Thus they found themselves
in full view of what looked like an army on the
march, with banners streaming and helmets and
lance points gleaming in the sunshine.

One glance, however, was sufficient to tell Edgar
that the force was at any rate largely English, and
the hand he had momentarily laid in alarm upon
his companion's bridle dropped again by his side.
"'Tis the earl," he said.  "Let us ride straight
forward."

It was evident that they had been seen at least
as quickly as they had seen, for half a dozen
knights were already spurring rapidly towards them.

As they drew near, the foremost slackened speed
and, addressing Edgar, cried:

"Who art thou and what is thine errand?"

"I am Edgar Wintour, esquire to Sir John
Chartris.  I and my party are riding into Bordeaux."

"Ha!  Methinks I remember seeing thee in the
lists a while agone.  But come, follow me to the
earl, for he will be glad to question thee and find
out what thou know'st of the movements of our
enemy."

Peter and Jeannette had by this time ridden up,
and, preceded by the knights, the whole party
moved forward to the head of the advancing army.
As they drew close the column was halted, and
in a moment Edgar found himself in the presence
of the Earl of Derby and the other lords and
nobles of the English and Gascon forces.  All
were mounted and clad in full mail in readiness
for instant action.

"They tell me," said the earl, glancing keenly
at the young man who had just ridden steadily up
and saluted him, "they tell me thou art Edgar
Wintour, the esquire of our good Sir John Chartris.
If so, tell me what thou art doing here, in the
enemy's country.  I have heard somewhat from
Sir John, but tell me all--and briefly, for our time
is short."

In a few quick sentences, Edgar told the earl
the story of his quest, its strange vicissitudes, and
its successful accomplishment.  Though the story
lost much by its baldness and absence of detail, he
could see that it made no small impression upon
his hearers.  One or two exchanged glances,
though what they meant he scarce knew what to
think.

"Humph!" said the earl shortly, "so thou hast
been in league with the subjects of the King of
France, hast thou?  That remindeth me: was it not
thou who masqueraded as Sir John Chartris in his
combat of honour with our worthy Sir Gervaise
de Maupas?  Dost remember that, Sir Walter?"
he said, turning to Sir Walter Manny.  "Thou
wert one of the marshals that day.  Nicely wert
thou tricked by this fledgling here."

Sir Walter frowned and growled an inarticulate
reply.

Edgar turned pale.  Things seemed to be going
awry.  He glanced at Beatrice, but she seemed
merely amused.  Angered at her indifference, he
turned resolutely to the earl:

"I am not ashamed," he said, with a touch of
haughtiness.  "What I did seemed for the best,
and who can do more?"

"We must see about that," responded the earl,
quite unmoved.  "Dismount, Sir Squire."

Mechanically Edgar obeyed.  Disgrace and
humiliation were hard indeed to bear, but firmly
he held up his head and faced the earl.  He would
not flinch, he vowed, before his countrymen any
more than he had flinched before his enemies in
the Castle of Ruthènes.  The earl's face had flushed
and his eyes sparkled.

"Bow thy head," he cried peremptorily, and his
sword flashed from its sheath.  Rapidly but gently
it fell upon Edgar's shoulder.

"Sir Edgar Wintour, we are proud of thee.
Knightly hast thou borne thyself in field and castle,
and the knight's spurs are thine indeed."  There
was a loud murmur of assent from the knights and
nobles crowding about, and as it ceased, the earl
went on: "Mount now and come with us a furlong
or two, for time presses and I would ask thee if thou
hast seen aught of our enemies.  Then thou canst
resume thy journey.  But when and wherever thou
wilt, we shall welcome thee to our banners."

Again there was a murmur of cordial agreement,
and, with his head in a whirl, Edgar mounted
and rode by the earl's side, answering his eager
questions as best he could.  Then he rejoined his
companions, and, halting a few paces from the path
of the army, watched them move forward upon
their march of conquest.  The sight was an
inspiriting one, for the force seemed to strike the
highest note of both hardihood and chivalry, and
Edgar, as he watched, longed to take his place
within its ranks.

Presently the last files of the army had passed
by, the waving banners had receded into the
distance, and the Wolsingham party, feeling a sudden
sense of loneliness, had nothing left them but to
resume their march towards Bordeaux.

For a long time the party was a silent one.
Edgar was thinking over the changes which must
ensue now that he was a gold-spurred knight.
For one thing, he could no longer remain in Sir
John's service.  His late master could now scarce
afford to support a knight, even if he desired to
do so.  Thus his connection with Wolsingham
would seem to be at an end.  The thought was
hardly a pleasant one.

Beatrice, too, rode as though lost in thoughts
none too bright, though once or twice she stole a
quick look at her silent companion.  Presently she
roused herself with an effort, and began to rally
Edgar on his gloominess.

"Thou art glum, Sir Edgar," she cried gaily.
"Surely thou hast all thou canst desire--knighthood
and a goodly fame, the earl's approval: what
more canst wish for?"

"Yes, yes, Beatrice," replied Edgar half
absently, "'tis as thou sayest.  I have much to be
thankful for--and yet there are some things I
regret, for I fear 'twill mean that I must leave Sir
John's service."

"Is that all?" asked Beatrice, raising her
eyebrows in indifference.

Edgar's absence of mind vanished, and he stared
at his fair companion with a chagrin that his sudden
astonishment did not give him time to conceal.

"Is it--is it nothing to thee, then?" he stammered,
after an awkward pause.

"Why should it be, Sir Edgar?" asked Beatrice
easily.

"I know not--but I thought that perhaps what
hath passed----"  Edgar stopped quickly, feeling
that what he was about to say was far from generous.

"What thou hast done for me, thou meanest?
Thou shalt be paid."

"Paid!" almost shouted Edgar.  "Not one groat
will I accept.  How can'st think of such a thing,
Beatrice?"

"Dost scorn payment, Edgar?  Mayhap thou
wilt one day be glad to accept what ye now so
scorn."

"Never, Beatrice!" cried Edgar emphatically.
"'Tis true I am landless, but at any rate I can
always ride away and join the league of the
'knights of the sword', or one of the other bands
of knights who spend their lives defending
Christendom from the inroads of the Turks.  Long have
I thought that with no means but a ready sword
such might be my fate."

"Dost then look forward to warring all thy
days?" asked Beatrice, a look of trouble coming
into her face for the first time.

"Nay, how can I, with Father Armand's words
still ringing in my ears?  But----" and Edgar
relapsed again into a silence which his companion
for a long time did not care to disturb.

The following day they arrived at Bordeaux.





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.. _`Sir John's Choice`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII


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   Sir John's Choice

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Our story draws to a close, and we must pass over
the eager welcome that awaited the travellers from
Sir John and his daughter, who were still at the
inn.  Sir John, indeed, had not progressed so
rapidly as had been expected.  His fever and his
wounds had left him very weak, and he had but the
day before resolved to leave France and return to
Wolsingham until such time as he might have
completely recovered.  Gertrude, of course, was to go
with him, and now that Beatrice had returned she,
too, must accompany her guardian, and the visit to
Faucigny had perforce to be completely abandoned.

With Edgar a knight, there was no question as
to his movements.  It was obvious that his duty
was to join the earl's force without delay.

"Thou hast begun well, Edgar," remarked Sir
John, when Edgar's final visit was drawing to a
close.  "Thou must go on and win fame, for I
believe that this campaign will be filled with deeds
which will add much to the honour and glory of
England's name.  I would that I might fling my
sword into the conflict and strike a few more blows
for my beloved country.  But no--thou must
represent me for the nonce."

Edgar bowed slightly.

"As for Beatrice here," went on Sir John,
turning suddenly towards his ward, "she must home
with me.  I fear she is getting wayward and
headstrong, and if I am to keep close watch upon every
gallant who dreams of the revenue of her lands, my
task will be no light one.  Fortunately for me, I
have the bestowal of her hand in marriage, and,
with no little relief, I have decided to find a suitable
husband for her.  'Twill lighten my responsibilities,
and her lands need a good sword to defend them in
these troublous times.  I have for some time had
in mind a knight of good descent and of staid
demeanour, and I shall now bring matters to a head."

"But, Sir John----" stammered Beatrice in hot amaze.

"Be silent, maid!" cried Sir John angrily.
"Wouldst dare to oppose thy wishes against the
considered judgment of thy guardian?"

But Beatrice stood her ground rebelliously,
tossing her pretty head in unmistakable anger and
defiance.  Nevertheless, Sir John showed no sign
of relenting, and, not daring to oppose him openly,
at last she turned with a look of appeal to Edgar,
who was staring at the floor with an air that
betokened no little disturbance of mind.  His glance
met hers, and it was clear to her that he knew as
little of Sir John's plans as she.

"Who is this knight, then?" she cried in a stifled
voice, turning again towards Sir John.

"He is a knight of some fame.  One, moreover,
of sober and godly habits."

"But who is he?"

"Think not that I will allow thee to question
my----"

"Torture me not, Sir John!" cried Beatrice
vehemently.  "Who is he?"

"'Tis Sir Edgar Wintour, Beatrice."

"*Oh!*"

"Darest thou oppose my will, Beatrice?"

Beatrice was flushed, and looked as though she
hardly knew which way to turn.  Edgar was staring
at Sir John as if he thought his ears had played
him a trick.

For some moments there was silence, and then
Sir John repeated his question, for Beatrice had
turned away and was toying with her brooch.

"Dost oppose my will, Beatrice?"

"It would grieve me to disobey thee, Sir John,"
she said at length, in a tone of dutiful submission.

"He will make thee a good husband," replied
Sir John, smiling in a way that made Beatrice
inwardly furious.  "What dost think of my choice,
girl?"

Beatrice subdued her resentment as best she
could, and replied demurely:

"Mayhap he is better than De Maupas."

"De Maupas!  Canst say no more than that,
Beatrice?" cried Edgar, breaking in impetuously.

"Not one word," replied the maid, with a haughty
stamp of the foot as she turned the vials of her
resentment upon the luckless Edgar.  Sir John
laughed outright, and with the best grace he
could Edgar was, for the moment, forced to rest
content.  But a time would come, he vowed to
himself, when a much more satisfactory reply
should be forthcoming.

The farewells were soon said, and in a few hours
Edgar was on his way to join the earl, while Sir
John and his daughter and ward were en route for
England.  Though scarce another word was
exchanged, it was nevertheless well understood
between Beatrice and our hero that, on his return
from the wars, he would receive a warmer
welcome and the full payment promised him so
readily a day or two before.

The campaign proved to be a brilliant one.  It
opened with a sudden and desperate onslaught
upon Bergerac, where the French had strongly
entrenched themselves.  The town was stormed
with a swing that so astounded the French that
their forces dispersed before the earl, and allowed
him to overrun Perigord and the Agenois with
scarce an attempt at resistance.

Presently, however, the French collected a new
army, and, returning to the attack, laid siege to
Auberoche with ten thousand men.  The news of
the attack reached the Earl of Derby too late to
enable him to collect a proper force, but, with the
true spirit of chivalry, he started away for the scene
with but three hundred lances and six hundred
archers.

Arrived in the vicinity of the beleaguered town,
the tiny English force stole upon the enemy under
cover of a wood, and, regardless of their overwhelming
strength, attacked them so furiously that the
whole French army were glad to save themselves
by flight.  So great was the respect this feat
brought to the English name that fortress after
fortress fell into their hands with scarce a check,
and it was not until France was completely aroused,
and sent the Duke of Normandy with one hundred
thousand men, that the small force of conquering
Englishmen could be stayed.

Aiguillon, held by Sir Walter Manny for England,
was attacked by the whole of the huge French
army.  For five months assault after assault was
made upon it.  On one occasion, indeed, for five
successive days the fight went on, each of the four
divisions of the French army taking its turn for
three hours at a time.  All to no purpose.  The
brave garrison repulsed all assaults, and even then
showed no sign of exhaustion.  The siege was at
length raised, and the earl was left for the time
being the undisputed ruler of the south of France.

In all these gallant doings Edgar, still attended
by the faithful Peter, took part; and when, only
two years after his departure from Wolsingham,
he returned to England, he had seen as many
stirring fights as most knights of twice his age.
He never went to the wars again, for he soon
became fast anchored to one whom he had learned
to love in the stirring events that centred round
the grim Castle of Ruthènes.

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   PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
   *At the Villafield Press, Glasgow, Scotland*

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