"Listen! Our gracious lord King Philip is at the bottom of his treasure-bags. Enguerrand de Marigny has persuaded him that Flanders is a very mine of gold; and in that he is not so far wrong, for here there is more of gold and silver than in all our France put together."
The knights laughed, while one and the other nodded assent.
"Hear further," proceeded Peter Flotte: "our Queen Joanna is deeply embittered against the Flemings; she hates this high and haughty people more than words can express. I myself have heard her say that she would like to see the last Fleming die on the gallows."
"That is what I call speaking like a queen," cried De Chatillon; "and if ever I have the rule here, as my gracious niece has promised me I shall, I will take care to fill her coffers, and send Master Peter Deconinck, with all his trumpery of guilds and city companies, to the right-about. But what business has that rascal listening?"
Their Flemish guide had, in fact, drawn near unobserved, and was drinking in every word that passed with attentive ears. As soon as he saw that he was noticed, he darted off, with a strange burst of laughter, among the trees, then halted at some little distance, and unsheathed his knife.
"Messire de Chatillon!" he cried, in a threatening tone, "look well at this knife, that you may know it again when you feel it under the fifth rib!"
"Is there none of my servants, then, that will avenge me?" cried De Chatillon in fury.
Before the words were well out of his mouth, a burly man-at-arms had dismounted, and was making at the youth sword in hand; but the latter, so far from defending himself with his weapon, put it up again into its sheath, and awaited his adversary with no other arms than those two sinewy ones with which nature had provided him.
"Die thou shalt, accursed Fleming!" cried the man-at-arms, with uplifted sword.
The youth answered not, but fixed his large piercing eyes on the soldier, who suddenly stood still with amazed look, as though all courage had at once forsaken him.
"On! stab him! kill him!" cried De Chatillon.
But the Fleming did not wait for his foe to come on. With a dexterous side-spring he threw himself within the sword's point, caught the man-at-arms with his powerful grasp about the waist, and dashed him so mercilessly head foremost against a tree that he fell to the ground without a sign of life. A last shriek of despair resounded through the wood, and the Frenchman closed his eyes forever, while a final spasm convulsed his limbs. With a frightful laugh the Fleming placed his mouth on the dead man's ear, and said in a tone of bitter scorn:
"Now go and tell thy lord and master that Jan Breydel's flesh is no food for ravens;—a French carcass is fitter meat for them."
And with this he sprang into the thicket, and disappeared in the depths of the forest.
The knights, who had meanwhile halted, and become anxious spectators of the scene, had not had time to exchange so much as a word with one another; but, as soon as they were recovered a little from their first astonishment, St. Pol exclaimed:
''In very truth, my brother, I believe that you have to do with a magician; for, as God is my helper, this is not according to nature."
"The place is indeed enchanted," replied De Chatillon, with a disconsolate air; "first my poor horse breaks his neck, and now I fear here is a faithful follower's life gone;—a most unlucky day! My men, take up your comrade, and carry him as well as you can to the nearest village, that there he may be cared for or buried, as his need may be. I pray you, gentlemen all, let the Count de Valois hear naught of this matter."
"Of course not!" was Peter Flotte's ready answer. "But let us now spur on a little; for I perceive Messire de Valois just at this moment disappearing among the trees."
Thereupon they gave their horses the reins, and soon overtook the count, who had meanwhile trotted steadily on, and did not now notice their approach. His head, with its silvered helmet, drooped in thought upon his breast; his gauntlet, keeping mechanically its hold of the reins, rested carelessly on his horse's mane; his other hand clasped the hilt of the long sword that hung down beside the saddle.
As he thus rode on, immersed in thought, and the other knights by signs to one another jested at his displeased air. Castle Wynandael, with its massive ramparts and lofty towers, was slowly rising before them.
"Hurrah!" cried Raoul de Nesle, joyfully; "there is our journey's end. Spite of the devil and all his works, here we are at Wynandael at last!"
"Would that I could see it on fire!" muttered De Chatillon; "the journey has cost me a good horse and a faithful servant."
And now the knight with the lilies on his breast turned to the others and spoke:
"This castle, gentlemen, is the abode of the unhappy Count Guy of Flanders—of a father whose child has been taken from him, a prince who has lost his land by the fortune of war, which has favored us. I pray you let him not feel that we come as conquerors, and be careful not to embitter his sufferings by any words of afifront."
"Think you. Count de Valois," snappishly interposed De Chatillon, "that we know not the rules of knightly good breeding? Think you that I am ignorant that a French knight should be generous in victory?"
"You know it, as I hear," replied De Valois, with strong emphasis; "I pray you, therefore, let me see you practise it. It is not in empty words that honor lies, Messire de Chatillon. What avails it that the precepts
