“My master, sire, is under vow to the Virgin neither to reveal his name nor to open his vizor until he is back upon French ground once more.”
“Yet what assurance have we,” said the prince, “that this is not some varlet masquerading in his master's harness, or some caitiff knight, the very touch of whose lance might bring infamy upon an honorable gentleman?”
“It is not so, sire,” cried the squire earnestly. “There is no man upon earth who would demean himself by breaking a lance with my master.”
“You speak out boldly, squire,” the prince answered; “but unless I have some further assurance of your master's noble birth and gentle name I cannot match the choicest lances of my court against him.”
“You refuse, sire?”
“I do refuse.”
“Then, sire, I was bidden to ask you from my master whether you would consent if Sir John Chandos, upon hearing my master's name, should assure you that he was indeed a man with whom you might yourself cross swords without indignity.”
“I ask no better,” said the prince.
“Then I must ask, Lord Chandos, that you will step forth. I have your pledge that the name shall remain ever a secret, and that you will neither say nor write one word which might betray it. The name is——” He stooped down from his horse and whispered something into the old knight's ear which made him start with surprise, and stare with much curiosity at the distant Knight, who was sitting his charger at the further end of the arena.
“Is this indeed sooth?” he exclaimed.