"What a master in minstrelsy Sir Adolf of Nieuwland is!"
And so at last they got back to Wynandael. The whole train entered the castle; but this time the bridge was not raised nor did the portcullis fall, and after a delay of a few minutes the French knights issued again from its walls armed as they had come. As they rode over the bridge De Chatillon observed to his brother:
"You know that I have this evening to uphold the honor of our niece; I reckon on you as my second."
"Against this rough-spoken Robert de Bethune?" asked St. Pol. 'T know not what may happen, but I fear you may come but badly out of it; for this Lion of Flanders is no cat to be taken hold of without gloves, and that you know as well as I."
"What is that to the purpose?" answered De Chatillon hastily. "A knight trusts to his skill and valor, and not to mere strength."
"You are quite right, my good brother; a knight must hold his ground against every one, be he who he may; but for all that it is better not to expose one's self unnecessarily. In your place I should have let Robert talk his spite out. What signifies what he says now that his lands are gone, and he is as good as our prisoner?"
"Be silent, St. Pol. Is that a seemly way to talk? Are you a coward?"
As he spoke these words they disappeared among the trees. And now the portcullis fell; the bridge was raised; and the interior of the castle was again concealed from view.
CHAPTER III
The knight or minstrel, who was admitted within the walls of Wynandael by the hospitality or compassion of its inhabitants, found himself on passing its gates in an open square; on his right he saw the stables, amply sufficient for a hundred horses, before which innumerable pigeons and ducks were picking up the stray grain; on his left were the lodgings for the soldiers and military retainers of all kinds, together with the magazines for the siege artillery of that day; as, for instance, battering-rams, with their carriages and supports, ballistas, which at one cast threw a shower of arrows into the besieged place, and catapults, which hurled crushing masses of stone against the hostile walls; besides scaling-ladders, fire-barrels, and other like implements of war.
Right in front of the entrance lay the residence of the Count and his family, rising majestically with its turrets above the lower buildings about it. A flight of stone steps, at the foot of which two black lions reposed, gave entrance to the ground floor, consisting of a long range of quadrangular rooms, many of them provided with beds for the accommodation of chance guests, others decorated with the arms of bygone Counts of Flanders, and with banners and pennons won on many a hardfought field.
On the right-hand side, in one corner of this vast building, was a smaller apartment, altogether different from the rest. On the tapestry with which its walls were adorned might be read the whole story of the sixth crusade in figures which almost looked alive. On one side stood Guy, armed from head to foot, and surrounded by his warriors, who were receiving from his hands the Cross; in the background was a long train of men-at-arms already on their way to the scene of action. The second side exhibited the battle of Massara, won by the Christian army in the year 1250. St. Louis, King of France, and Count Guy, were distinguishable from the other figures by their banners. The third side presented a hideous scene. A multitude of Christian knights lay dying of the plague upon a desert plain. Among the corpses of their comrades, and the carcasses of horses, black ravens flew over the fatal camp, watching for each one's death to gorge themselves with his flesh. The fourth side showed the happy return of the Count of Flanders. His first wife, Fogaets of Bethune, lay weeping on his breast, while her little sons Robert and Baldwin lovingly pressed his hand in theirs.
By the marble chimney-piece, within which a small wood fire was burning, sat the old Count Guy in a massive armchair. Full of deep thought, he was supporting his head on his right hand, his eye resting unconsciously on his son William, who was busily reading prayers from a book with silver clasps. Matilda, Robert de Bethune's youthful daughter, stood with her hawk on the other side of the chamber. She was caressing the bird, without heeding her grandfather or uncle; while Guy, with a dark misgiving of the future, was brooding over the past, and William was praying to Heaven for some alleviation of their sorrows, she was playing with her favorite, without a thought that her father's inheritance was confiscated, and possessed by his enemies. Not that she was wanting in feeling; but, half-child as she was, her sorrow did not last beyond the immediate impression which excited it. When she was told that all the towns of Flanders were occupied by the foe, she burst into abundant and bitter tears; but by the evening of that selfsame day her tears were dried and forgotten, and she was ready to caress her hawk as before.
After Guy's eyes had for some time rested unmeaningly upon his son, he suddenly let fall the hand which supported his head, and asked:
"William, my son, what is it you are asking so fervently of God?"
"I am praying for my poor sister Philippa," was the youth's answer; ''God knows, my father,
