“Why, this is well done!” exclaimed Fulk. “Thou art a youth of promise, and wilt well be a prop to our grandson’s English throne. Thou shalt take knighthood from mine own hand as thy prowess well deserveth. And thou, fair damsel, here is one whom we could scarce hold back from rushing with single hand to deliver his betrothed. Sir Raymond of Courtwood, you are balked of winning thy lady at the sword’s point, but thou wilt scarce rejoice the less.”
A dark-eyed, slender young knight, in bright armour, drew towards Mabel, and she let him take her hand; but she was intent on something else, and exclaimed—
“Oh, sir, Sir King, let me speak one word! The guerdon should not be only my brother’s. The device that served us was—our squire’s.”
The Baron of Courtwood uttered a fierce exclamation. Walter muttered, “Mabel, do not be such a meddling fool”; but the King asked, “And who may this same squire be?”
“An old English churl,” said Walter impatiently. “My father took him as his squire for want of a better.”
“And he has been like a father to us,” added Mabel
“Silence, sister! It is not for you to speak!” petulantly cried Walter. “Not that the Baron of Courtwood need be jealous,” added he, laughing somewhat rudely. “Where is the fellow? Stand forth, Sigbert.”
Travel and heat-soiled, sunburnt, gray, and ragged, armour rusted, leathern garment stained, the rugged figure came forward, footsore and lame, for he had given up his horse to an exhausted man-at-arms. A laugh went round at the bare idea of the young lady’s preferring such a form to the splendid young knight, her destined bridegroom.
“Is this the esquire who hath done such good service, according to the young lady?” asked the King.
“Ay, sir,” returned Walter; “he is true and faithful enough, though nothing to be proud of in looks; and he served us well in my sally and attack.”