“Alas, my child!” said the old lady, putting her arm round him, and drawing him close to her, whilst her tears flowed fast, and Richard stood, reassured by her embrace, listening with eyes open wide, and deep oppressed breathing, to what was passing between the four nobles, who spoke earnestly among themselves, without much heed of him.
“The Duke dead!” repeated Sir Eric de Centeville, like one stunned and stupefied.
“Even so,” said Rainulf, slowly and sadly, and the silence was only broken by the long-drawn sobs of old Count Bernard.
“But how? when? where?” broke forth Sir Eric, presently. “There was no note of battle when you went forth. Oh, why was not I at his side?”
“He fell not in battle,” gloomily replied Sir Rainulf.
“Ha! could sickness cut him down so quickly?”
“It was not sickness,” answered Ferrières. “It was treachery. He fell in the Isle of Pecquigny, by the hand of the false Fleming!”
“Lives the traitor yet?” cried the Baron de Centeville, grasping his good sword.
“He lives and rejoices in his crime,” said Ferrières, “safe in his own merchant towns.”
“I can scarce credit you, my Lords!” said Sir Eric. “Our Duke slain, and his enemy safe, and you here to tell the tale!”