Though the knights were not armed at all points in full battle-harness, yet it was easy to see that they were by no means unprovided against a possible attack; for the sleeves of their shirts of mail were not hidden bv the sleeveless surcoat. Moreover, their long swords hung down at their saddlebows, and each one was attended by his squire, bearing his ample shield. Every knight bore his cognizance embroidered upon his breast, so that at a glance the name and descent of each might easily be known. At that early hour of morning the travelers were little inclined for conversation. The heavy night air still weighed upon their eyelids, and it was with the utmost difficulty that they struggled against sleep. All rode onward in silence, wrapped in a kind of dreamy half slumber.
A young man strode along before them in the road. His long waving hair flowed over his broad shoulders; eyes of heaven's own blue glowed and flashed under their brows, and a young curly beard fringed his chin. He wore a woolen jerkin, drawn into his waist with a girdle, in which he bore the broad-bladed, cross-handled knife in its leathern sheath, at once the appropriate weapon and distinguishing ensign of a free Flemish burgher. It might easily be seen, from the expression of his countenance, that the company to which he was acting as guide was not to his taste. Doubtless his heart was full of some secret design; for from time to time he cast upon the knights a look of peculiar meaning. Lofty of stature, and of unusual strength of build, he stepped along so quickly that the horses could hardly keep pace with him at a trot.
They journeyed on thus for a while, till at last one of the horses stumbled over the stump of a tree, so that it came upon its knees, and had wellnigh fallen over altogether. The knight fell forward, with his chest upon his steed's neck, and was as near as possible measuring his length on the ground.
"How now!" exclaimed he in French; "my horse is gone to sleep under me!"
"Yes, Messire de Chatillon," answered his neighbor, with a smile, "that one of you was asleep is plain enough."
"Rejoice over my mishap, evil jester that you are," retorted De Chatillon; "asleep I was not. For these two hours past I have had my eyes fixed on those towers yonder, which are certainly bewitched; for the farther on we ride, the farther off they seem to be. But so it is; the gallows will be one's portion ere one hears a good word out of your mouth."
While the two knights thus twitted one another, the others laughed right merrily at the accident, and the whole cavalcade woke up out of its somnolency.
De Chatillon had meanwhile brought his horse upon its legs again; and, irritated with the quips and laughter which resounded from every side at his expense, drove his sharp spur (after the manner of the time, he wore but one) fiercely into the animal's side, which thereupon first reared in fury, and then rushed headlong among the trees, where, within the first hundred yards of its wild career, it dashed itself against the stem of a gigantic oak, and sank almost lifeless to the ground.
Well was it for De Chatillon that, as the shock came, he fell or threw himself sidewise from the saddle; notwithstanding this, however, he seemed to have had a severe fall, and it was some moments before he moved either hand or foot.
His comrades came round him, dismounted, and carefully raised him from the ground. The one among them who had been the readiest to make merry over his former mishap seemed now of all the most tenderly concerned for him, and bore on his countenance an unmistakable expression of real sorrow.
"My dear Chatillon," he sighed out, "I am heartily grieved at this. Forgive me my idle words; believe me, there was no harm meant."
"Leave me in peace," cried the fallen knight, now somewhat recovering himself, and breaking loose from the arms of his companions; "I am not dead this time, my good friends all. Think you, then, that I have escaped the Saracens to die like a dog in a Flemish wood? No; God be praised, I am still alive! See, St. Pol, I swear to you that you should pay on the spot for your ill-timed gibes were we not too near in blood for such reckoning between us."
"Come, be reasonable, my dear brother, I pray you," replied St. Pol. "But I perceive you are hurt; you are bleeding through your coat of mail."
De Chatillon drew back the sleeve from his right arm, and then noticed that a branch had torn the skin.
"Ah! look!" said he, quickly reassured, "this is nothing, a mere scratch. But I do believe that Flemish rascal has brought us into these accursed roads on purpose; I will inquire into that matter; and if it be so, may I forfeit my name but he shall hang on this very oak of mischief."
The Fleming, who was all the while standing by, looked as if he understood no French, and eyed De Chatillon firmly and proudly in the face.
"Gentlemen," said the knight; "only look at the peasant, how he stares at me I Come here, rascal! nearer, come nearer!"
The young man approached slowly—his eyes fixedly bent on the knight. A peculiar expression hovered over his features—an expression in which wrath and cunning were strangely united; something so threatening, and at the same time so mysterious, that De Chatillon could not repress a slight shudder.
One of the knights present, meanwhile, turned away, and walked off some paces through the trees, with an evident appearance of dissatisfaction at the whole affair.
"Tell me now," said De Chatillon to the guide, "why have you brought us by such a road? and why did
