“I have eaten my frugal meal already, and desire none of your cates and dainties. Lo, I am ready to conduct you to the hall where hangs the sword of the man whom thy father slew one Friday long ago, and it will be well for thee but to tarry while thou takest it and then depart.”
“We will eat our nuncheon, with your leave, in the castle hall.”
“I cannot say you nay.”
He took them to the half-dismantled dining hall, where hung the portraits of the old lords of Fievrault rudely limned, and conspicuous amongst them those of the founder of the house, and his loathly lady; the painter had not flattered them.
There hung several swords, rusty with age and disuse, two-handed weapons which it required a giant strength to wield; huge battle-axes, maces, clubs tipped with iron spikes, ancient suits of armour, rusty and unsightly, as old clothing of that sort is apt to become after the lapse of years. There was no vacant hook now, for at the end of the row hung the sword of the ill-fated Sieur de Fievrault, the last of his grim race.
The Englishmen gazed upon the portraits, which they regarded with insular irreverence (what were French knights and dames to them?), then without awe spread the contents of their wallets on the board, and feasted in serenity and ease.
When it was over the wine produced its usual exhilarating effect. Song and romaunt were sung until the shadows began to turn towards the east and the hues of approaching evening to suffuse the shades of the adjacent wilderness. Then the old servitor came up to Hubert:
“It is time, my lord, to take the sword thou hast come to seek, and to go, unless thou wishest to be benighted in the forest.”
“My lord,” said Almeric, “we have come abroad in quest of adventures, and as yet found none to relate around the winter fireside when we get home again; and it is the humble petition of your poor squire and men-at-arms that we may remain in the castle this night and see what stuff the phantoms are made of, if phantoms there be.”
Hubert smiled approval.