‘Westward!’ said the lady impressively. ‘And what’s yon in the distance?’
‘Save that this land is as flat as a bannock, I’d have said ‘twas mountains.’
‘Mountains they are, young man!’ said Madame de Ste. Petronelle emphatically—‘the hills between Lorraine and Alsace, which we should be leaving behind us.’
‘Is there treachery?’ asked George, reining up his horse. ‘Ken ye who is the captain of this escort?’
‘His name is Hall; he is thick with the Dauphin. Ha! Madame, is he sib to him that aided in the slaughter of Eastern’s Eve night?’
‘Just, laddie. ‘Tis own son to him that Queen Jean made dae sic a fearful penance. What are ye doing?’
‘I’ll run the villain through, and turn back to Nanci while yet there is time,’ said George, his hand on his sword.
‘Hold, ye daft bodie! That would but bring all the lave on ye. There’s nothing for it but to go on warily, and maybe at the next halt we might escape from them.’
But almost while Madame de Ste. Petronelle spoke there was a cry, and from a thicket there burst out a band of men in steel headpieces and buff jerkins, led by two or three horsemen. There was a confused outcry of ‘St. Denys! St. Andrew!’ on one side, ‘Yield!’ on the other. Madame’s rein was seized, and though she drew her dagger, her hand was caught before she could strike, by a fellow who cried, ‘None of that, you old hag, or it shall be the worse for thee!’
‘St. Andrew! St. Andrew!’ screamed Eleanor. ‘Scots, to the rescue of your King’s sisters!’