“I know not, young sir; but I can only say that on the eve of Cadsand, and on the eve of Crecy, and on the eve of Nogent, I dreamed of a red cow; and now the dream has come upon me again, so I am now setting a very keen edge to my blade.”
“Well said, old war-dog!” cried Aylward. “By my hilt! I pray that your dream may come true, for the prince hath not set us out here to drink broth or to gather whortle-berries. One more fight, and I am ready to hang up my bow, marry a wife, and take to the fire corner. But how now, Robin? Whom is it that you seek?”
“The Lord Loring craves your attendance in his tent,” said a young archer to Alleyne.
The squire rose and proceeded to the pavilion, where he found the knight seated upon a cushion, with his legs crossed in front of him and a broad ribbon of parchment laid across his knees, over which he was poring with frowning brows and pursed lips.
“It came this morning by the prince's messenger,” said he, “and was brought from England by Sir John Fallislee, who is new come from Sussex. What make you of this upon the outer side?”
“It is fairly and clearly written,” Alleyne answered, “and it signifies To Sir Nigel Loring, Knight Constable of Twynham Castle, by the hand of Christopher, the servant of God at the Priory of Christchurch.”
“So I read it,” said Sir Nigel. “Now I pray you to read what is set forth within.”
Alleyne turned to the letter, and, as his eyes rested upon it, his face turned pale and a cry of surprise and grief burst from his lips.
“What then?” asked the knight, peering up at him anxiously. “There is nought amiss with the Lady Mary or with the Lady Maude?”
“It is my brother—my poor unhappy brother!” cried Alleyne, with his hand to his brow. “He is dead.”