This rebuke excited the object of it to the most furious rage, which would certainly have broken out into words of violence but for the interposition of his brother, St. Pol, who held him back, and at the same time whispered in his ear:
"Hush, Chatillon, hush; the count is right. It is but due to our honor that we add no sufferings to the old Count of Flanders: he has troubles enough!"
"What! The faithless vassal has made war upon our king, and so offended our niece, Joanna of Navarre, that she has wellnigh been irritated into sickness; and now he is to be spared, forsooth!"
"Gentlemen," repeated De Valois, "you have heard my request; I do not believe that you will be wanting in generosity. And now, forward! I already hear the dogs; our approach too has been observed, for the bridge falls, and the portcullis is raised."
The Castle of Wynandael (its ruins may still be seen near Thourout, in West Flanders, hard by the village of the same name), built by the noble Count Guy of Flanders, was one of the fairest and strongest existing at that day. From the broad moat which compassed it rose high and massive walls, above which again, on every side, a multitude of watch-towers were conspicuous. Through the numerous loopholes might be seen glancing the keen eyes of the bowmen and the sharp steel of their arrows. Surrounded by the ramparts rose the pointed roofs of the lord's dwelling, with their guilded weather-cocks glittering in the sun. At the angles of the walls and in the fore-court stood six round towers, which served for hurling missiles of all kinds upon the foe, to keep him aloof from the body of the building. A single drawbridge crossed the moat, and made a way from the island fortress to the surrounding woods and vales.
As the knights drew near, the sentinel gave the sign to the guard within, and immediately the heavy gates creaked upon their hinges. The tread of the horses was already sounding upon the bridge, and the French knights passed on into the castle, between two rows of Flemish infantry drawn up in arms to receive them. The gates closed, the portcullis fell, and the drawbridge slowly rose behind them.
CHAPTER II
The heaven was colored with so pure a blue that the eye failed when it sought to measure the skyey depths; the sun rose radiant above the horizon; the loving turtle-dove was sipping the last dewdrops from the verdant foliage.
Castle Wynandael resounded with one continual cry of hounds; while the neighing of the horses mingled with the cheery tones of the horns. But the drawbridge was still raised, and the passing countryman could only conjecture what was going on within. Numerous sentinels with cross-bow and shield paced the outmost ramparts, and through the loopholes might be discerned a mighty running hither and thither of a multitude of armed retainers.
At last some of the guardians of the walls made their appearance on the upper platform of the gateway, and let the drawbridge down; and at the same moment the gates opened wide, to give egress to the hunting-party which now rode slowly over the bridge.
A magnificent cavalcade it was, and of right high and mighty lords and ladies. First rode the old Count Guy of Flanders on a brown steed. His features bore the expression of quiet resignation and unuttered grief. Bowed down by his eighty years and his hard lot, his head hung heavily forward upon his bosom; his cheeks were furrowed over with deep wrinkles. A purple surcoat flowed from his shoulders upon the saddle; his snowy hair, wound about with a kerchief of yellow silk, was like a silver vase hooped with gold. Upon his breast, on a heart-shaped shield, might be seen the black lion of Flanders, rampant in his golden field.
This unfortunate prince found himself now, at the end of his days, when rest and peace would have been the fitting meed for his long toils and struggles, thrust from his high estate and robbed of all. His children, too, deprived of their inheritance by the fate of war, had only a life of poverty and obscurity in prospect—they who should have been the wealthiest among Europe's princes. But though beset with enemies flushed with recent victory, and sorely tried by fortune, the brave old count yielded not to despair one inch of ground in his heart.
Beside him, and deep in discourse with him, rode Charles de Valois, brother to the King of France, who seemed desirous of impressing on the old count some views of his own into which the latter did not very readily enter. The battle-sword at the French chief's side had meanwhile given place to another of less formidable proportions, and the knee-pieces, too, were no longer to be seen.
Behind Charles trotted a knight of haughty air and gloomy aspect. His eyes rolled and flamed within their sockets; and if perchance they fell upon one of the French knights, he compressed his lips, and ground his teeth so violently, that an attentive ear might have caught the sound. Hard upon fifty years old, but still in the fullest vigor of life, with broad chest and powerful limbs, he might well pass for one of the stoutest knights of his day. The horse, too, on which he rode was much taller than any of the rest, so that he showed a full head above any of his companions. A glittering helmet, with blue and yellow plume, a heavy coat of mail, and a curved sword, were all his arms, defensive and offensive: his surcoat, which
