TRIAL BY COMBAT
Max had waited until Calli's arm was mended to bring up the subject of the trial by combat; but when he would have taken it before the duke, I dissuaded him by many pretexts, and for a few days it was dropped. But soon it was brought forward in a most unpleasant way. Max and I were in the streets of Peronne one afternoon, and as we approached a group of ragged boys, one of them cried out:--
"There is the fellow that challenged Count Calli, but won't fight him!"
Max turned upon the boy, caught him roughly by the shoulder, and asked him where he got his information. The frightened boy replied that his father was a hostler in the duke's stables, and had heard Count Calli say that the fellow who had challenged him was "all gauntlet but no fight."
We at once sought Hymbercourt, who, on being closely questioned, admitted that the Italians in the castle were boasting that the stranger who seemed so eager to fight when Calli's arm was lame, had lost his courage now that the arm was healed.
Of course I was in a deal of trouble over this combat, and heartily wished the challenge had never been given, though I had all faith in Max's strength and skill. I, who had fought constantly for twenty years, had trained him since his tenth birthday. I had not only trained him; I had introduced him to the lists at eighteen--he being well grown, strong of limb, and active as a wildcat. I waged him against a famous tilt-yard knight, and Max held his own manfully, to his great credit and to my great joy. The battle was a draw. My first great joy in life came a few months afterward, when Max unhorsed this same knight, and received the crown of victory from the queen of the lists.
But this combat would be a battle of death. Two men would enter the lists; one would die in the course.
Max could, with propriety, announce his title and refuse to fight one so far beneath him as Calli; but even my love for the boy and my fear of the outcome, could not induce me to advise this. The advice would have been little heeded had I given it. Max was not one in whose heart hatred could thrive, but every man should have a just sense of injury received, and no one should leave all vengeance to God. In Max's heart this sense was almost judicial. The court of his conscience had convicted Calli of an unforgivable crime, and he felt that it was his God-appointed duty to carry out the sentence.
While I had all faith in Max's strength and skill, I also knew Calli to be a strong, time-hardened man, well used to arms. What his skill was, I could not say, but fame proclaimed it great. It would need to be great to kill Max, boy though he was, but accidents are apt to happen in the lists, and Calli was treacherous. I was deep in trouble, but I saw no way out but for Max to fight. So, on the morning after our conversation with Hymbercourt, Max and I sought admission to the duke's audience. Charles had been privately told of our purpose and of course was delighted at the prospect of a battle to the death.
A tournament with, mayhap, a few broken heads furnished him great enjoyment; but a real battle between two men, each seeking the other's life, was such keen pleasure to his savage, blood-loving nature, that its importance could hardly be measured. Charles would have postponed his war against the Swiss, I verily believe, rather than miss this combat between Max and Calli.
The duke hurried through the business of the morning, and then turned toward Max, signifying that his time had come. Max stepped before the ducal throne, made his obeisance, and said:--
"May it please Your Highness to recall a wage of battle given by me some weeks ago, in this hall and in this august presence, to one who calls himself Count Calli? The cause of my complaint against the said Calli I need not here rehearse. I have waited to repeat my defiance until such time as Count Calli's arm should mend. I am told that he is now strong; and, most gracious Lord Charles, Duke of Burgundy, I again offer my wage of battle against this said knight and demand the trial by combat."
Thereupon he drew an iron gauntlet from his girdle and threw it clanking on the stone floor. The gauntlet lay untouched for the space of a minute or two; and the duke turned toward Calli and Campo-Basso, who stood surrounded by their Italian friends at the right of the throne. After a long pause Charles said:--
"Will Count Calli lift the gage, or shall we appoint a court of heraldry to determine whether or no the combat shall take place?"
There was a whispered conversation among the Italians, after which Campo-Basso addressed the duke.
"My most gracious lord," said he, "the noble Count Calli is loath to lift the gage of an unknown man, and would make bold to say that he will not do so until he is satisfied that he who so boastingly offers it is worthy in blood, station, and knighthood to stand before him."
"For all that I will stand surety," said Hymbercourt, turning to the duke and to Campo-Basso.
"The Lord d'Hymbercourt's honor is beyond reproach," replied the Italian, "but Count Calli must have other proof."
Hymbercourt was about to make an angry reply, but he was silenced by the duke's uplifted hand.
"We will ourself be surety for this knight," said Charles.
"We cannot gainsay Your Lordship's surety, most gracious duke," returned Campo-Basso; "but with all meekness and humility we would suggest, with Your Grace's permission, that when a man jeopards his life against another he feels it his right to know at least his foe's name."
"Count Calli must content himself with knowing that the knight's name is Sir Maximilian du Guelph. If Count Calli is right and his cause just, God will give him victory, and the whole world shall know of his deed. If he is in the wrong and his cause unjust, may God have mercy on his soul."
A long pause ensued during which Max stood before the duke, a noble figure of manly beauty worthy the chisel of a Greek sculptor. The shutter in the ladies' gallery was ajar and I caught a glimpse of Yolanda's pale, tear-stained face as she looked down upon the man she loved, who was to put his life in peril to avenge her wrong.
"We are wasting time, Count Calli," spoke the duke. "Take up the gage or demand a court. The charge made by Sir Max will certainly justify a court of chivalry in ordering the combat. The truth or falsity of that charge you and Sir Max must prove on each other's bodies. His desire to remain unknown the court will respect; he has ample precedent. If you are convinced by the word of our Lord d'Hymbercourt and myself that he is of birth and station worthy to engage with you in knightly and mortal combat, you can ask no more. Few courts of chivalry, I take it, would hold the evidence inconclusive. Take up or leave the gage, Sir Count, and do one or the other at once."
Calli walked over to the gauntlet and, taking it from the floor, held it in his right hand while he bent his knee before the duke. He did not look toward Max, but turned in the direction of his friends and tucked the gauntlet in his girdle as he strode away.
"We appoint this day twelve days, on a Sunday afternoon, for the combat," said Charles. "Then these men shall do their endeavor, each upon the other; and may God give victory to the right!"
That evening, as usual, Max and I were at Castleman's. Yolanda did not come down till late, but when she came she clung silently to Max, and there was a deep pathos in her every word and glance. As we left, I went back and whispered hurriedly to her:--
"Have no fear, dear one. Our Max will take no harm."
My words were bolder than my heart, but I thought to comfort her.
"I have no fear, Sir Karl," she said, in a trembling voice. "There is no man so strong and brave as Max. He is in the right, and God is just. The Blessed Virgin, too, will help him. It would be sacrilege to doubt her. I do not doubt. I do not fear, Sir Karl, but, oh, my friend--" Here she buried her face on my breast and wept convulsively. Her words, too, had been bolder than her heart--far bolder.
The brooding instinct in me--the faint remnant of mother love, that kind Providence has left in every, good man's heart--longed to comfort her and bear her pains. But I was powerless to help her, and, after all, her suffering was wholesome. In a moment she continued, sobbing while she spoke:--
"But--oh! if by any mischance Max should fall; if by treachery or accident--oh, Sir Karl, my heart is breaking. Do not let Max fight." These words were from her woman's heart. "His station will excuse him, but if the affair has gone too far for him to withdraw, tell him to--to leave Burgundy, to run away, to--"
"Yolanda, what are you saying?" I asked. "Would you not rather see him dead than a coward?"
"No, no, Sir Karl," she cried, wrought almost to a frenzy by her grief and fear. "No, no, anything but dead."
"Listen to reason, Yolanda," I answered. "I, who love Max more than I love the blood of my heart, would kill him with my own hand rather than have cause to call him coward and speak the truth."
"No, no," she cried desperately, grasping my hand. "Do not let him fight. Ah, Sir Karl, if you bear me any love, if my grief and unhappy lot have touched your heart, even on the smallest spot, I pray you, do this thing for me. Do not let Max fight with this Count Calli. If Max falls--"
"But Max will not fall," I answered boldly. "He has overthrown better men than Calli."
"Has he? Ah, tell me, has he? He is little more than a boy. I seem older than he at times, and it is hard to believe what you say, though I know he is strong, and that fear has no place in his heart. Tell me, whom has he overthrown?"
"Another time, Yolanda," I responded soothingly, "but this I say now to comfort you. Calli is no match for our Max. In the combat that is to come, Max can kill him if he chooses, barring accidents and treachery. Over and above his prowess, his cause, you know, is just, and for that reason God will be with him."
"Yes, yes," sobbed Yolanda, "and the Virgin, too."
The Virgin was a woman in whom she could find a woman's sympathy. She trusted God and stood in reverent awe of Him; but one could easily see that the Virgin held her heart and was her refuge in time of trouble. When I turned to leave she called me back, saying:--
"I have a mind to tell Max the truth--to tell him who I am."
"I would not do so now," I answered, fearing, perhaps with good reason, the effect of the disclosure on Max. "After the combat, if you wish to tell him--"
"But if he should fall?" said the girl, beginning to weep again and clinging desperately to my arm. "If he should fall, not knowing who I am?"
"Max will not fall, Yolanda. Dismiss that fear from your heart."
My bold words served a double purpose. They at least partially satisfied Yolanda, and they strengthened me.
Of course Max and I at once began to prepare for the combat. The charger we had captured from the robbers on the Rhine now came to our hand as if sent by Providence. He was a large, active horse, with limbs like steel. He was an intelligent animal, too, and a good brain is almost as valuable in a horse as in a man. He had evidently borne arms all his life, for when we tried him in the tilt-yard we found him trained at every point.
There was no heavy plate at the Peronne armorer's large enough for Max, so Hymbercourt dropped a hint to Duke Charles, and His Grace sent two beautiful suits to our inn. One was of Barcelona make, the other an old suit which we judged had come from Damascus. I tried the latter with my sword, and spoiled a good blade. Although the Damascus armor was too heavy by a stone, we chose it, and employed an armorer to tighten a few nuts, and to adjust new straps to the shoulder plates and arm pieces.
We caused lists to be built outside the walls, and Max worked eight hours a day to harden himself. He ran against me, against our squires, who were lusty big fellows, and now and then against Hymbercourt, who was a most accomplished knight.
Yolanda was prone to coax Max not to fight, and her fear showed itself in every look and gesture. Her words, of course, could not have turned him, but her fears might have undermined his self-confidence. So I pointed out to her the help he would get from encouragement, and the possible hurt he would take were her fears to infect him. After my admonition, her efforts to be cheerful and confident almost brought tears to my eyes. She would sing, but her song was joyless. She would banter Max and would run imaginary courses with him, taking the part of Calli, and always falling dead at Max's feet; but the moment of relaxation brought a haunting, terrified expression to her eyes. The corners of her sweet mouth would droop, effacing the cluster of dimples that played about her lips, and the fair, childish face, usually so joyful, wore the mask of grief. For the first time in her life real happiness had come, not within her grasp, but within sight; and this combat might snatch it from her.
Once when I was helping Max to buckle on his armor for a bout at practice, he said:--
"Yolanda seems to treat this battle as a jest. She laughs and banters me as if it were to be a justing bout. I wonder if she really has a heart?"
"Max, I am surprised at your dulness," I said. "Do you not see her manner is assumed, though her fear is small because of her great faith in your prowess?"
"I'll try to deserve her faith," answered Max.
When at last the day arrived, Max was in prime condition. At the inn we carefully adjusted the armor and fitted it on him. One of our squires led the charger, carefully trapped, to the lists, which had been built in an open field outside the town, west of the castle.
Max and I, accompanied by Hymbercourt and two other friends, rode down to Castleman's, and Max entered the house for a few minutes. Yolanda had told him that she would not be at the lists, and Max felt that it were better so.
Twonette and her father had gone to the lists when we reached the House under the Wall, but Yolanda and Frau Kate were awaiting us. There was a brief greeting and a hurried parting--tearful on Yolanda's part. Then we rode around to the Postern and entered the courtyard of the castle. Crossing the courtyard, we passed out through the great gate at the keep, and soon stood demanding admission to the lists.
The course was laid off north and south, the sun being in the southwest. The hour of battle was fixed at four o'clock, and the combat was to continue till sundown, if neither champion fell before that time. The pavilion for the duke and the other spectators was built at the west side of the false lists--a strip of ground ten feet wide, extending entirely around the true lists, but separated from it by a barrier or railing three feet high.
It was an hour after we left Castleman's house before Max and I entered the false lists. As I expected, the princess was sitting in the pavilion with her father and Duchess Margaret. A veil partly concealed her features, and when Max rode down the false lists to make his obeisance before the duke and the duchess, he could not know that the white face of Yolanda looked down upon him. I was sorry to see the princess in the pavilion, because I knew that if an untoward fate should befall Max, a demonstration would surely follow in the ducal gallery.
At the gate of the true lists, Max was met by a priest, who heard his oath, and by a herald, who read the laws and the agreement relating to the combat. A court of heraldry had decided that three lances should be broken, after which the champions, if both alive, should dismount and continue the fight with battle-axes of whatever weight they might choose. If either knight should be disabled, it was the other's right to kill him.
After Max had entered the true lists the gates were closed, and Hymbercourt, myself, and our squires stood outside the barrier at the north end of the false lists,--the north being Max's station on the course.
Max sat his charger, lance in rest; Calli waited in the south, and these two faced each other with death between them.
When all was ready the heralds raised their banners, and the duke gave the word of battle. There was a moment of deep silence, broken by the thunder of tramping hoofs, as horses and men rushed upon each other. Calli and Max met in mid-course, and the din of their contact was like the report of a cannon. Each horse fell back upon its haunches; each rider bent back upon his horse. Two tough yule lances burst into a hundred splinters. Then silence ensued, broken after a moment by a storm of applause from the pavilion.
The second course was like the first, save that Max nearly unhorsed Calli by a marvellous helmet stroke. The stroke loosened Calli's helmet by breaking a throat-strap, but neither he nor his friends seemed to notice the mishap, and the third course was begun without remedying it. When the champions were within ten yards of each other, a report like the discharge of an arquebuse was heard, coming apparently from beneath the pavilion. I could not say whence the report came--I was too intent upon the scene in the lists to be thoroughly conscious of happenings elsewhere--but come it did from somewhere, and Max's fine charger plunged forward on the lists, dead. Max fell over his horse's head and lay half-stunned upon the ground.
Above the din rose a cry, a frantic scream, that fairly pierced my heart. Well I knew the voice that uttered it. The people in the pavilion rose to their feet, and cries of "Treachery! treachery!" came from all directions. Calli was evidently expecting the shot, for just before it came he reined in his horse, and when Max fell the Italian instantly brought his charger to a standstill and began to dismount with all the speed his heavy armor would permit. When safely down, he unclasped his battle-axe from the chain that held it to his girdle and started toward Max, who was lying prone upon the ground. Cries of "Shame! shame!" came from the pavilion, but no one, not even the duke, dared to interfere; it was Calli's right to kill Max if he could.
I had covered my eyes with my hand, thinking that surely the boy's hour had come. I removed my hand when I heard the scream, and I have thanked God ever since for prompting me to do that little act, for I saw the most beautiful sight that my eyes have ever beheld. Calli had reached his prostrate foe and was standing over him with battle-axe uplifted to deal the blow of death. At that same moment Yolanda sprang from the duke's side, cleared the low railing in front of the ducal box, and jumped to the false lists six or eight feet below. Her gown of scarlet and gold shone with dazzling radiance in the sunlight.
Calli was facing the pavilion, and Yolanda's leap probably attracted his attention. However that may have been--perhaps it was because of Calli's haste, perhaps it was the will of God--the blow fell short, and Calli's battle-axe, glancing from Max's helmet, buried itself in the hard ground. While Calli was struggling to release his axe, Yolanda cleared the low barrier of the true lists, sped across the intervening space like a flash of red avenging flame, and reached Max not one second too soon, for Calli's axe was again uplifted. She fell upon Max, and had the axe descended she would have received the blow. Calli stepped back in surprise, his heel caught on the toe of Max's iron boot, he fell prone upon his back, and the weight of his armor prevented him from rising quickly. The glancing blow on Max's helmet had roused him, and when he moved Yolanda rose to her knees beside him.
"Let me help you," she cried, lifting Max's mailed hand to her shoulder; Max did so, and by help of the frail girl he drew himself to his knees and then to his feet. Meantime, Calli was attempting to rise. I can still see the terrible picture. Calli's panting horse stood near by with drooping head. Max's charger lay quivering in the convulsions of death. Calli, whose helmet had dropped from his head when he fell, lay resting on his elbow, half risen and bareheaded. Max stood deliberately taking his battle-axe from his girdle chain, while Yolanda still knelt at his feet. Battle-axe in hand, Max stepped toward Calli, who had risen to his knees. The expression on the Italian's face I shall never forget. With bared head and upturned face he awaited the death that he knew he deserved. Max lifted his battle-axe to give the blow. I wondered if he would give it. He lowered the axe, and a shout went up from the pavilion:--
"Kill him! Kill him!"
He lifted the axe again, and a silence like the hush of death fell upon the shouting audience. Again Max hesitated, and I distinctly heard Yolanda, who was still upon her knees, whisper:--
"Kill him! Kill him!"
Then came the shouts of a thousand voices, thrilling me to the marrow:--
"Kill him! Kill him!" and I knew that if I were standing in Max's shoes, Calli would die within a moment. I also remember wondering in a flash of thought if Max were great enough to spare him. Again the battle-axe came slowly down, and the din in the pavilion was deafening:--
"Kill him! Kill him!"
Again the battle-axe rose; but after a pause, Max let it fall to the ground behind him; and, turning toward the girl, lifted her with his mailed hands to her feet. When she had risen Max looked into her face, and, falling back a step, exclaimed in a voice hushed by wonder:--
"Yolanda!"
His words coming to the girl's ears, like a far-away sound, from the cavernous recesses of his helmet, frightened her.
"No, no, my name is not Yolanda. You are mistaken. You do not know me. I--I am the princess. You do not know me."
Her words were prompted by two motives: she wished to remain unknown to Max, and she feared lest her father should come to know that a great part of her life was spent as a burgher girl. Her hands were clasped at her breast; her face was as pale as a gray dawn; her breath came in feeble gusts, and her words fell haltingly from her lips. She took two steps forward, her eyes closed, and she began to fall. Max caught her and lifted her in his strong arms. On great occasions persons often do trivial acts. With Yolanda held tightly in the embrace of his left arm, Max stooped to the ground and picked up his battle-axe with his right hand. Then he strode to the north end of the lists and placed the girl in my arms.
"Yolanda," he said, intending to tell me of his fair burden.
"No, Max," I whispered, as he unfastened his helmet. "Not Yolanda, but the princess. The two resemble each other greatly."
"Yolanda," returned Max, doggedly. "I know her as a mother knows her first-born."
Not one hundred seconds had elapsed between the report of the arquebuse and the placing of Yolanda in my arms; but hardly had Max finished speaking when a dozen ladies crowded about us and took possession of the unconscious princess.
After the duke had set on foot a search for the man who had fired the arquebuse, he came down to the false lists and stood with Hymbercourt and me, discussing the event. Campo-Basso said that his heart was "sore with grief," and the Italians jabbered like monkeys. One of them wanted to kiss Max for sparing his kinsman's life, but Max thrust him off with a fierce oath. The young fellow was in an ugly mood, and if I had been his enemy, I would sooner have crossed the path of a wounded lion than his. He was slow to anger, but the treachery he had encountered had raised all of Satan that was in him. Had he stood before Calli thirty seconds longer that treacherous heart would have ceased to beat.
While we were standing in the false lists, speaking with the duke, an Italian approached Max, bowed low, and said:--
"The noble Count Calli approaches to thank you for your mercy and to extol your bravery."
Max turned his head toward the centre of the course, and saw Calli surrounded by a crowd of jabbering friends who were leading him toward us. A black cloud--a very mist from hell--came over Max's face. He stooped and took his battle-axe from the ground. I placed my hand on the boy's arm and warningly spoke his name:--
"Max!" After a pause I continued, "Leave murder to the Italians."
Max uttered a snort of disdain, but, as usual, he took my advice. He turned to Campo-Basso, still grasping his battle-axe:--
"Keep that fellow away from me," he said, pointing toward Calli. "My merciful mood was brief. By the good God who gave me the villain's life, I will kill him if he comes within reach of my axe."
An Italian ran to the men who had Calli in charge, and they turned at once and hurried toward the south gate of the lists. All this action was very rapid, consuming only a minute or two, and transpired in much less time than it requires to tell of it.
While our squires were removing Max's armor, I heard the duke say:--
"Arrest Calli. We will hold him until the shot is explained. If he was privy to it, he shall hang or boil." Then the duke, placing his hand on Max's shoulder, continued: "You are the best knight in Christendom, the bravest, the most generous, and the greatest fool. Think you Calli would have spared you, boy?"
"I am not Calli, my lord," said Max.
"You certainly are not," returned the duke.
Visions of trouble with France growing out of Yolanda's "t," and of a subsequent union between Max and the princess, floated before my mind, even amidst the din that surrounded me. Taking the situation by and large, I was in an ecstasy of joy. Max's victory was a thousand triumphs in one. It was a triumph over his enemy, a triumph over his friends, but, above all, a triumph over himself. He had proved himself brave and merciful, and I knew that in him the world had a man who would leave it better and happier than he found it.
Calli was arrested and brought to the duke's presence. Of course he denied all knowledge of the shot that had killed Max's horse. Others were questioned, including three Italian friars wearing cassocks and cowls, who bore a most wondrous testimony.
"Your Grace," said one of the friars, "we three men of God can explain this matter that so nearly touches the honor of our fair countryman, the noble Count Calli."
"In God's name, do so," exclaimed the duke.
"This is the explanation, most gracious lord. When the third course was preparing, we three men of God prayed in concert to God the Father,"--all the friars crossed themselves,--"God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, to save our countryman, and lo! our prayers were most graciously answered; for, noble lord, at the moment when this most valiant knight was about to kill our friend, we each heard a report marvellously like to the discharge of an arquebuse. At the same instant a fiery shaft descended from the palm of a mighty hand in the heavens, and the horse of this valiant and most generous knight, Sir Max, fell dead, stricken by the hand of God."
I had no doubt that this absurd explanation would be received with scorn and derision; but the friar knew his audience, and I did not. His statement was not really accepted as true, but it was not cast aside as utterly absurd. I saw that it might easily be believed.
"Why did not others see your wondrous shaft from the hand of God?" I asked.
"Because, noble lord," answered the friar, "our eyes were looking upward in prayer. All others were fixed on this worldly combat."
The explanation actually seemed to explain.
Just then the men who had been sent out to seek evidence concerning the shot returned, and reported that no arquebuse was to be found. The lists were surrounded by an open field, and a man endeavoring to escape would have been seen.
"Did you search all places of possible concealment for an arquebuse?" asked the duke.
"All, my lord," answered the men, who were Burgundians and to be trusted.
Faith in the friars absurd story was rapidly gaining ground, and several of the Italian courtiers, emboldened by encouragement, affirmed upon their hope of salvation and their knightly honor that they, too, had witnessed the descent of the shaft from heaven. Touch a man on his superstitions, and he will believe anything you tell him. If you assure him that an honest friend has told you so and so, he may doubt you, but tell him that God tells you, and he will swallow your hook. If you would have your lie believed, tell a great one.
Charles, more credulous and gullible than I should have believed, turned to Hymbercourt. He spoke reverentially, being, you understand, in the presence of a miracle:--
"This is a wondrous happening, my lord," said the duke.
"If it happened, Your Grace," returned Hymbercourt, "it certainly was marvellous."
"Don't you think it did happen? Do not you believe that this bolt came from the hand that was seen by these worthy friars?" asked the duke.
"The shaft surely did not come from a just God, my lord," returned Hymbercourt.
"Whence, then, did it come?" asked the duke. "No arquebuse has been found, and a careful scrutiny has been made."
"Aye!" echoed the friars. "Whence else did it come? Whence, my Lord d'Hymbercourt, whence?"
I had noticed our Irish servant Michael standing near one of the friars. At this point in the conversation the Irishman plucked me by the sleeve, pointed to a friar, and whispered a word in my ear. Like a stone from a catapult I sprang on the friar indicated, threw him to the ground, and drew from under his black cassock an arquebuse.
"Here is the shaft from God!" I exclaimed, holding the arquebuse up to view. Then I kneeled on the prostrate wretch and clutched his throat. Anger gathered in my brain as lightning clusters about a mountain top. I threw aside the arquebuse and proceeded to kill the canting mendicant. I do not know that I killed him; I hope I did. I cannot speak with certainty on that point, for I was quickly thrown away from him by the avenging mob that rushed upon us and tore the fellow limb from limb. The other friars were set upon by the populace that had witnessed the combat from without the lists, and were beaten so unmercifully that one of them died. Of the other's fate I know nothing, but I have my secret desires.
"Kill the Italians! Murder the assassins! Down with the mercenaries," cried the populace, who hated the duke's guard. The barriers were broken down, and an interesting battle ensued. Surely the people got their full satisfaction of blood and excitement that day. The Italians drew their swords, but, being separated, they were at a disadvantage, though their assailants carried only staves. I expected the duke to stop the fight, but he withdrew to a little distance and watched it with evident interest. My interest was more than evident; it was uproarious. I have never spent so enjoyable a day. The fight raged after Max and I left, and there was many a sore head and broken bone that night among the Italian mercenaries of the Duke of Burgundy.
When Max and I returned to Peronne, we went to the noble church of St. Jean and offered our humble gratitude. Max, having thrown off his anger, proposed to buy a mass for the dead friar; but I was for leaving him in purgatory where he belonged, and Max, as usual, took my advice.
On reaching the inn, Max cried loudly for supper. His calmness would have done credit to a hardened warrior. There was at least one hardened warrior that was not calm. I was wrought almost to a pitch of frenzy and could not eat, though the supper prepared by Grote was a marvel in its way. The old man, usually grave and crusty, after the manner of German hosts, actually bent his knee to Max and said:--
"My poor house has entertained kings and princes; but never has it had so great an honor as that which it now has in sheltering you."
That night the duke came with Hymbercourt to honor us at the inn. Each spoke excitedly and warmly. Max seemed to be the only calm man in Peronne.