"Do you know why Harry of Lancaster goes, Arthur?" said Edward, smiling.
"No, my Lord," replied Arthur.
"He cannot bear to hear aught of King of England," was the answer. "If you love me, good Arthur, vex him not with speaking of it."
"Father Cyril would say, he ought to learn content with the rank where he was born," said Arthur.
"Father Cyril, again!" said Prince Edward. "You cannot live a day without speaking of him, and of your uncle."
"I do not speak of them so much now," said Arthur, colouring, "It is only you, Lord Edward, who never make game of me for doing so—though, I trow, I have taught Pierre de Greilly to let my uncle's name alone."
"Truly, you did so," said Edward, laughing, "and he has scarce yet lost his black eye. But I love to hear your tales, Arthur, of that quiet Castle, and the old Blanc Etoile, and your uncle, who taught you to ride. Sit down here on the grass, and tell me more. But what are you staring at so fixedly? At the poor jaded horse, that yonder man-at-arms is urging on so painfully?"
"'Tis—No, it is not—Yes, 'tis Brigliador, and John Ingram himself," cried Arthur. "Oh, my uncle! my uncle!" And, in one moment, he had bounded across the ditch, which fenced in their exercising ground, and had rushed to meet Ingram. "Oh, John!" exclaimed he, breathlessly, "have they done it? Oh, tell me of Uncle Eustace! Is he alive?"
"Master Arthur!" exclaimed Ingram, stopping his wearied horse.
"Oh, tell me, Ingram," reiterated Arthur, "is my uncle safe?"