"Sir," answered the Fleming, In bad French, "I know of no other way to Castle Wynandael; and I was not aware that your honor was pleased to be asleep."
And with these words a scornful smile played about his mouth, and it might easily be seen that he was turning the knight into ridicule.
"Insolent!" cried De Chatillon; "you laugh— you make jest of me? Here, my men! take this rascal peasant and hang him up! let him be food for the ravens!"
The youth laughed yet more contemptuously, the corners of his mouth twitched yet more violently, and his countenance became alternately pale and red.
"Hang a Fleming!" he muttered; "wait a little!"
Upon this he retreated a few steps, set his back against a tree, stripped up the sleeves of his jerkin to his shoulders, and drew his bright cross-handled knife from its sheath; the mighty muscles of his arms swelled up, and his features became like those of an angry lion.
"Woe to him that touches me!" thundered from his lips: "Flemish ravens will never eat me; French flesh suits their stomachs better!"
"Lay hold of him, you cowards!" cried De Chatillon to his men; "seize him, and up with him! Look at the poltroons! are ye afraid of a knife? Must I defile my hands with a peasant! But no, that must not be, I am noble; and like must to like, so it is your affair! Come, seize him by the collar!"
Some of the knights endeavored to pacify De Chatillon; but most of them took his part, and would willingly have seen the Fleming swing. And assuredly the men-at-arms, urged on by their master, would have fallen upon the youth, and in the end overpov/ered him, had not at this moment the same knight drawn near who had just before gone a few steps aside, and till now had walked up and down absorbed in thought. His dress and armor far surpassed those of all the rest in magnificence; the lilies in a blue field embroidered upon his breast showed that he was of royal blood.
"Hold, there!" cried he, with a stern look to the men-at-arms; while he added, turning to De Chatillon: "You seem to have forgotten that it is to me that my brother and our King Philip has given the land of Flanders in fief. The Fleming is my vassal; it is I that am his lord and judge, and you have no right over his life."
"Am I then to submit to be insulted by a common peasant?" asked De Chatillon, angrily. "By my troth, count, I know not why it is that you always take the common man's part against the noble. Is this Fleming then to escape with the boast of having put to scorn a French knight unpunished? And you, gentlemen, say, has he not richly deserved to die?"
"Messire de Valois," said St. Pol, "I pray you let my brother have the satisfaction of seeing this Flemish fellow swing. What difference can it make to you whether the pig-headed rascal lives or dies?"
"Now listen, gentlemen," cried Charles de Valois, thoroughly roused, "this inconsiderate talk is extremely displeasing to me. I would have you to know that the life of one of my subjects is no small thing in my eyes; and it is my will that this young man go his way unmolested and unhurt. To horse, gentlemen; we waste too much time here."
"Come along, Chatillon," muttered St. Pol, turning to his brother, "take the horse of one of your people, and let us start: after all, De Valois is no true man; he holds with the people."
Meanwhile the men-at-arms had replaced their swords in their scabbards, and were now busied in helping their master to remount.
"Are you ready, gentlemen?" asked De Valois. "If so, let us make haste and get on, else we shall be too late for the hunt. And do you, vassal, walk on one side, and tell us when we have to turn. How much farther have we to Wynandael?"
The youth took oR his cap, bowed respectfully to his preserver, and answered: "A short hour's ride, my lord."
"By my soul, I don't trust the fellow," said St. Pol; "I believe he is but a wolf in sheep's clothing."
"That I have long suspected," interposed the chancellor, Peter Flotte; "for he eyes us like a wolf, and listens like a hare."
"Hah! now I know who he is!" cried De Chatillon. "Have you never heard of pne Peter Deconinck, a weaver of Bruges?"
"You are certainly wrong there," observed Raoul de Nesle; "I have myself spoken with the noted weaver of Bruges, when I was there; he is a far deeper one than this fellow, though he has but one eye, while our friend here has two, and those none of the smallest. Without doubt the lad is attached to the old family, and is not overwell pleased at our victorious arrival to thrust them out and take possession—that's all. Surely we may well forgive him his fidelity to his country's princes in their evil days."
"Enough of this," interrupted De Chatillon; "let us speak of something else. Do any of you know what it is that our gracious King Philip really means to do with this Flanders? If he kept his treasury as close as his brother De Valois's lips, by mine honor it would be but a poor life at court."
"There you're right," answered Peter Flotte; "but he is not so close with every one. Keep your horses back a little, and I will tell you things of which assuredly you wot not."
Curious to hear what it was he had to tell, the knights drew together about him, and let the Count de Valois get somewhat in advance. As soon as he was far enough not to hear what was
