There also in the narrow court was a fight going on—but nearly ended. Geordie Douglas knelt over the prostrate form of Rudiger von Balchenburg, calling on him to yield, but meeting no answer. One or two other men lay overthrown, three or four more were pressed up against a wall, howling for mercy. Sigismund was shouting to them in German—Ringan and the other assailants standing guard over them; but evidently hardly withheld from slaughtering them. The maidens stood for a moment, then Jean’s scream of welcome died on her lips, for as he looked up from his prostrate foe, and though he had not yet either spoken or risen, Sigismund had stepped to his side, and laid his sword on his shoulder.
‘Victor!’ said he, ‘in the name of God and St. Mary, I make thee Chevalier. Rise, Sire George of Douglas!’
‘True knight!’ cried Jean, leaping to his side. ‘Oh, Geordie, Geordie, thou hast saved us! Thou noblest knight!’
‘Ah! Lady, it canna be helpit,’ said the new knight. ‘’Tis no treason to your brother to be dubbed after a fair fight, though ‘tis by a Dutch prince.’
‘Thy King’s sister shall mend that, and bind your spurs,’ said Jean. ‘Is the reiver dead, Geordie?’
‘Even so,’ was the reply. ‘My sword has spared his craig from the halter.’
Such were the times, and such Jean’s breeding, that she looked at the fallen enemy much as a modern lady may look at a slain tiger.
Eleanor had meantime met Sigismund with, ‘Ah! well I knew that you would come to our aid. So true a knight must achieve the adventure!’
‘Safe, safe, I am blessed and thankful,’ said the Duke, falling on one knee to kiss her hand. ‘How have these robbers treated my Lady?’
‘Well, as well as they know how. That good woman has been very kind to us,’ said Eleanor, as she saw Barbe peeping from the stair. ‘Come hither, Barbe and Trudchen, to the Lord Duke’s mercy.’